Disburden
by RangerGirl
Summary: House’s parents die unexpectedly. In the week leading up to the funeral, Wilson does what he can. House/Wilson
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Disburden

**Rating:** R

**Pairing:** House/Wilson

**Warnings:** Language, mild violence, references to canonical abuse.

**Length:** Long. 25,000 words, in four parts.

**Summary: **House's parents die unexpectedly. In the week leading up to the funeral, Wilson does what he can.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, except for some of House's family.

**Notes: **So, yeah. I've been writing this, which started out from the very basic premise of "House and Wilson go to House's parents' funeral" for over a year. With certain things coming up on the actual show, I figured I should get it finished and posted before Doris et al entirely upstage me this week. This is set sometime after series 3 and disregards canon beyond that point.

* * *

It's a quarter after ten in the evening, and Wilson's still in his office.

He's been finding more and more reasons (_excuses_) to stay late, recently, citing an increased workload whenever anyone (_House_) asked, although statistically he's pretty sure there are no more cancer patients at PPTH than there have been before, his workload is the same as it ever was.

The thing is, before (before what he's not quite sure; before now, before this, before everything became impossible and he'd started to wonder exactly where he'd gone so wrong) he'd always had things to drag him away. There'd always be reasons to shoot off the last email of the day as quickly as he could, and leave on the dot at six every evening; places to be, promises to keep, marriages to uphold. However crappy and soul-destroying the marriages had ultimately been, he'd at least had the comforting illusion of purpose, a reason for being that extended beyond the walls of his office.

Now, all that's waiting for him is a too-short drive to an empty hotel room, and he's looking for any excuse to put off the inevitable moment when his key card clicks in the door, and he's faced with the reality of how really, irredeemably pathetic his life has become.

He barely registers the knock when it comes, so wrapped up in this pleasantly distracting spiral of self-pity.

"Come in."

When Cuddy appears, it doesn't come as much of a surprise. She's been working late too, more so than usual, and he has to wonder dimly if she's trying to avoid something just as much as he is. He'd dropped her off at home, once, after their theatre-date-that-wasn't-a-date, and just before he drove away he'd turned back, seen her standing at the door fumbling for her keys and she'd looked small and fragile and terribly alone, empty house looming vast and dark behind her.

He'd figured he was projecting, and maybe he still is. Cuddy's job is hardly low-maintenance and there's every chance she's working overtime for reasons that have nothing whatsoever to do with her emotional state. He's always been a little too good at noticing the cracks in other people, though, especially when it allows him not to focus on all the ways his own life is going to hell.

"What's up?"

She doesn't look right, he notices, pale, and sad, and very serious.

"I've, uh. I've got bad news."

A thrill of dread goes through him and his thoughts leap immediately, reflexively, to House. If he didn't feel ready to vomit he'd have to laugh at his own predictability, how the fear's become so constant he barely notices it anymore.

"What is it?" He's surprised at how steady his voice is.

"I just got a call from Richard House."

For a moment his mind is completely blank, but there's something in the name that rings a distant bell.

"Richard—is that House's uncle?"

"You know him?"

"Uh, no. No, he mentioned him, I guess." An Uncle Dick had definitely come up, though he can't now recall any of the details beyond the fact that House had deemed his name well-earned.

"He'd already spoken to House," Cuddy explains, off his confused expression, "but I guess that didn't go so well, he thought he should call here…" She breaks off, sighing, steeling herself. "John and Blythe were in an accident this afternoon. Car wreck, two trucks involved, five other cars. They were both killed."

"God." The room spins, a little; of all the things he'd been expecting to hear, this hadn't even occurred. "God. How, how did—" But he breaks off himself because it's not important, he doesn't want or need the details of just how they'd died, the precise ways in which their bodies had broken, crushed under layers of glass and steel, maybe, shattered against hot tarmac.

"House knows?" he asks, finally, and Cuddy nods.

"Richard called his office to tell him, House hung up and his team said he left without an explanation. His car's not in the lot and he's not picking up the phone either, big surprise."

Again the fear, only half irrational, pounding red-hot in the pit of his stomach, clawing at his chest. He swallows.

"I'll try him again."

Even as he pulls the phone towards him he knows he's grasping at straws, that House is more than capable of ignoring calls at the best of times. He listens to the ringing; one, two, three, feels his heart sink as it goes to voicemail though he'd hardly expected anything different.

"House, it's me. I don't know if you're home, or not picking up, or—(i_on the floor/i, _his mind interjects, horribly)–or what, but I just wanted to…To uh. God." He rubs a hand roughly over his closed eyes, searching for phrases that won't come. The silence in his ear is deafening, mocking him and his sudden inability to form words, to say the things he should and he really, really wishes House would pick up the damn phone.

"Alright, this is pointless, either you're not home so you're not listening to this anyway, or you _are _home but you're choosing to ignore the phone, in which case you've probably not listening either, so…I'm not even sure why I'm leaving a message."

He's on the verge of hanging up when there's a soft click on the other end of the line.

"Been a while since you left voicemail. Are you always this pithy?"

He exhales sharply, surprised. "House?"

"Is that a question?"

"I didn't expect you to actually answer."

"I gathered. Figured I'd better dam the stream of consciousness before you rambled your way through the entire tape."

"Are you okay?"

"Peachy." His voice is distant.

"I just heard," Wilson says, uselessly.

"Yeah. What, was there a memo?"

"No, Cuddy told me. Just now. She was worried, your team said you just disappeared…"

House snorts. "Drama queens. It was way past six, I was off the clock." He's downplaying this for all its worth but his voice is betraying him, low and flat, and he sounds quiet, somehow. Smaller. Something tightens painfully in Wilson's chest.

"House, I—do you want me to come over?"

Silence, for a minute, and he waits with not-quite-bated breath for the brush off that doesn't come.

"If you want."

This is, he knows, the closest House will come to admitting he might want him there, and it's enough. It's more than enough.

"Alright, I'm leaving now."

The only response is a muffled click on the line, and he hangs up before he hears the dial tone.

——

He gets to House's apartment in record time (one thing he doesn't miss is rush hour traffic), radio droning in the background as he tries to ignore the tightening knot of dread in his stomach.

A year ago, maybe even less, he thinks this would have come easily to him. It used to be second nature, coping with crises, knowing what to say and how to be, how to react. His patients thanked him for terminal diagnoses, his most tenuous of acquaintances and distant relatives came to him, intermittently, for advice. People turned to him for solace, for a reliable shoulder to cry on and he accepted them willingly, let them lean on him until they didn't need to anymore because it didn't cost him anything, then, he didn't have the limits he has now.

His world has shifted, narrowed; people he used to know have drifted away or maybe been pushed out, without his even knowing it, sidelined to the point of non-existence because House is always the priority, the only constant, and he leaves precious little room for anybody else.

He used to know how to hold other people together. He thinks, once, he even knew how to hold House together, knew where to apply pressure and when to keep his distance, knew every wound and every weak spot like the back of his hand because after Stacy left he'd had to learn, there had been no alternative. Nothing's clear anymore, he's not sure he knows anything for certain and it's all he can do, now, to hold himself together.

He tries to stop thinking so hard, tries to clear his head as he pulls up outside the apartment, knocks, and has to wait less time than he'd expected for House to answer.

"You have a key for a reason, you know."

"Yeah," he replies, relieved, "and if you didn't answer, I'd have had to use it."

House stands aside, clearing Wilson's way into the living room that feels different, somehow, suddenly alien. He hasn't felt like a guest in House's apartment for longer than he can remember, it had felt like home on some level long before he ever actually lived here. Yet all at once he's awkward, standing stiffly at the threshold like a stranger.

"If you're waiting for me to take your coat…"

Irritated at himself, Wilson shrugs hurriedly out of his jacket and discards it on the piano stool, not taking his eyes off House who is, in turn, looking anywhere but at Wilson. After a moment he turns and heads towards the kitchen.

"Drink?"

Not waiting for a response, House reaches for a glass and fills it from an open bottle of scotch. Wilson takes the drink without comment, though he can't remember when the last time was that House offered him anything stronger than beer.

"Nice," he says, a little hoarse, throat burning as he sips.

"'79 Laphroaig. Only bring it out for special occasions."

House looks at him then, their eyes meeting for the first time, and there's something in his gaze that shatters Wilson, combining with the warm trail of whisky in his chest to let him finally say the words he's been choking on.

"I'm so sorry, House. Jesus. I'm so sorry." He steps forward, arm moving as if to reach out but House is already turning away, shutting down, shutting him out.

"Yeah," he says, his face a mask, and Wilson's hand falls redundantly at his side. He watches House make his way over to the couch with the bottle, refill his own glass, and sit down heavily. A few moments pass in painful, deafening silence.

"What happened?"

House makes a small, tired sound in the back of his throat as Wilson sits down beside him, refuses to look away.

"Which part?" he asks, as if admitting defeat.

"All of it. Anything."

"Thought Cuddy told you—"

"She didn't know specifics."

"How did she know at all?"

"Your uncle, after you spoke he called the hospital. Guess he thought they should know."

"Good of him."

There's a bitter silence, punctuated only by the sound of House draining his glass and setting it back on the table.

"So, you want the official report as given by the doctor who pronounced them both DOA? Her neck was broken on impact, she died instantly. He died in transit from multiple internal injuries and brain haemorrhaging. They were pretty vague on what actually happened, but apparently it started with a truck driver who'd had either a few too many Buds or not enough caffeine pills. He lost control of the wheel, truck slid a few yards to the side and it all went to hell from there. So to speak."

Wilson opens his mouth, struggles for a moment, closes it again.

"Do you need to call anyone?" he asks, finally. "Any other family, people who need to be told? I can—"

"No need. Dick will have told his wife, so I figure most of the east coat should be in the know soon enough. She'll be all over this by now, I wouldn't want to deprive her of the drama."

Wilson nods, figuring he probably doesn't keep numbers for most of the relevant people in any case.

He looks over at House, who's staring down into the bottom of his glass like it's about to tell him something vital, something explanatory. His shoulders are hunched, the lines and rough surfaces of his face spelling out more than words could, and Wilson has a sudden, intense desire to reach out, touch, do something.

"Been trying to figure out the last time I spoke to them. She called me sometime after Christmas, I think that was it."

Christmas_. _He can't think of it, even the word itself, without his mind moving to Tritter, to cold bus rides and thirty pieces of silver, the daily sense of slow, creeping dread, an empty pill bottle and paralysing anger. He remembers House through steel bars and wonders if he mentioned any of it to Blythe, if she'd had any idea, then of all times, just what was going on in her son's life. He doesn't really have to wonder.

"Your dad?"

"Last time they visited."

"At the hospital? What, almost—almost two years ago, you spoke to him last?"

"You're surprised?"

He isn't, really, but the reality of it makes him sad in ways he can't really explain. Reaching absently for his glass, he tries in vain to remember the last time he called his parents.

House, to his surprise, keeps talking, filling in the details of his last conversation with his mother (largely small talk, nothing consequential), before moving on to other, less significant things; anecdotes, memories, all of them mundane and utterly unsentimental, told in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone that could have been mistaken for impassivity. His father goes almost unmentioned.

He'd never really considered going back to the hotel, but in any case it's too late now to be worth it, and although the scotch is making him drowsy he has less than no desire to sleep. House doesn't show any inclination to move either and so they remain, moving fluidly between speech and bouts of relatively comfortable silence, until the first pale threads of daylight begin to expand and they watch the sun rise in streaks of red and gold.

——

A few hours later he's dressing for work in House's bathroom. There's a part of him, a big part, that wants to take the day off, but he has five patients booked and a department meeting to head and House doesn't show any particular desire for him to stick around.

Faced with nothing to wear, he's less surprised than he should be to discover, at House's direction, a dresser drawer half-filled with items of his clothing: socks, underwear, several shirts, a belt he'd forgotten he owned. Some he recognises as things he'd half-accidentally neglected to take with him when he'd moved out, others he doesn't remember at all.

"You know, some people might be disturbed by a friend hoarding their clothes," he says mildly, walking into the kitchen to find House leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee.

"Not my fault you insist on washing your dirty linen in my apartment," House shrugs. "You left most of it when you moved out."

"I was looking for that tie for weeks, how long has that been here? Julie never forgave me for losing that."

"What, the paisley thing? You had a lucky escape." Off Wilson's look, he amends, "From the tie. Not the marriage. Although…"

They're startled into silence by the phone, which House leaves to ring until finally the machine picks up.

"Greg? Greg, it's your aunt Sarah. Are you there? I don't imagine you're at work, so call me as soon as you get this, it's very important. Richard says you hung up on him last night – which is understandable, you were in shock – but there are things we should discuss. Arrangements need to be made for the bodies, for embalming if there's going to be a viewing, I don't know how you feel about that—anyway. Please, give me a call back as soon as possible." There's a muffled click, a shorter beep, and deafening silence.

Both of them stare at the phone for a moment, eyeing it like a foreign object.

"She sounds nice," Wilson manages at last.

"Yeah, lovely woman. Three generations' worth of emotional repression in a ninety-five pound bag."

He's not entirely sure what that means, and he decides against asking.

"I should go."

"You should."

"You gonna be okay?" He tries to keep his tone light. House gives him a look like the question's not really worthy of a response, which he figures is about as close to reassurance as he's likely to get. "Look you know where I am, call if you need—I don't know. Something."

"I'll try to get by." There's a tense pause, before House nods pointedly towards the door, letting Wilson off the hook. "Go on. Go save some lives."

"Oncologist, remember?"

"Right. Go pull some plugs."

He's almost smiling as he leaves.

——

By the time he gets to work, fifty minutes and three separate traffic jams later, any semblance of good spirits have evaporated. The sleep deprivation, staved off so far by sheer adrenalin, is beginning to take hold, and all he wants is to get to his office in time to drink a cup of mediocre coffee before his first patient shows up.

"Doctor Wilson?"

He closes his eyes as the glass doors close behind him, praying for strength. Opening them again, he sees Cameron hurrying towards him and turns pointedly away, picking up his pace.

"Wilson!"

"I don't…" he begins, but she's already fallen into step alongside him, undeterred.

"I'm so glad I caught you, I tried calling you at home but the switchboard said you were out. I wanted to—"

Something inside him snaps, quietly, he knows where this is going and he turns on her with an expression that's anything but friendly. "Cameron, it's not even nine yet, is it too much to ask to get across the lobby without being accosted? If you need a consult, go to Brown."

But she doesn't want a consult, he knows pretty well, and as she stops in her tracks he's already regretting his snappy response. "Sorry. That was…" He rubs a hand roughly over his face. "I didn't get a lot of sleep last night. Any, actually."

Her face softens. "You were with House?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I was. I guess you've all heard by now?"

"Cuddy called us last night," she nods, looking forlorn. "That's what I wanted to ask. How is he?"

"He's okay. Comparatively, I mean, he's okay. I guess." He's sounding less and less sure with every word, and he's grateful when she doesn't press him further.

"He stayed home?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think you guys are on your own." And that's weird, now he comes to think of it, the fact that House hadn't put up a fight, hadn't seemed to care one way or another about missing the day. For any normal person in his situation taking leave would make absolute sense, but for House to voluntarily miss work, with his team in the middle of an unsolved case, is strange. "How's the patient doing?"

"We've got him on methotrexate, but he's not showing much improvement. Which isn't that surprising, given that we aren't working with a diagnosis as such."

"Are you going to be able to handle it?" He can see dark circles under her eyes, her hair less immaculate than normal, and wonders if she's been here all night.

"Cuddy's assigning Foreman to the case for now, I'm hoping some new ideas will help."

She doesn't sound convinced, and Wilson winces inwardly at the awkwardness of the scenario. While Chase and Cameron had returned to House as diagnostic "consultants" which amounted to effectively the same job description with a significantly larger pay check, Foreman had moved on to a research position in neurology.

"Looking forward to that?" he asks, grimly.

"Yeah, I don't know. I don't have a problem with Foreman, I never did. Chase isn't thrilled, but if it'll help solve the case…"

She shrugs, looking tired. Wilson's struck by how much she seems to have aged since he first knew her, all the ways House has moulded and hardened her over the years, forged like metal in a white-hot flame.

"Well, I'm pretty up against it today, but if you need anything–"

"Thank you."

He feels her hand on his arm, squeezing briefly as she turns to leave and his eyes burn suddenly, the small brush of sympathy nearly undoing him. He yanks his composure swiftly back into place, thankful that it's still early enough for the foyer to be quiet, and heads for the elevator.

On his way back from the cafeteria later, steaming cup and cellophane-wrapped sandwich in hand, he literally runs into a frazzled-looking Cuddy.

"Sorry," he apologises automatically, wincing as hot coffee sloshes through the lid onto his knuckle.

"No, my fault. Sorry. I was actually looking for you, do you have a minute?"

They eat together in his office, Cuddy producing a box of sushi from a small paper bag.

"House's patient is still deteriorating," she says, after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "Foreman thought encephalitis although the others had already ruled it out, Chase was convinced it was NMS but the patient's never been on antipsychotics, they butted heads for a while until both tests came back negative."

Wilson grimaces. "You're sure this was a good idea? Reassembling the old team?"

"Foreman has diagnostic experience, it's almost certainly a neurological problem – it just made sense." She sighs. "But no, I'm not sure it was a great idea. The ratio of bickering to productive discussion seems pretty uneven, especially without House…"

"I know." He pauses, sipping. "How did you convince him to take the time off? With a case unsolved, doesn't seem like him."

"Didn't give him much of a choice. I lied, told him the patient was improving and they didn't need him." She winces. "I don't know, at the time it made sense. I thought it was the best thing for him to just…stay home. Process. I thought if he couldn't use the case as an excuse, as a way to avoid facing what happened—I mean, he's going to have to deal with it at some point. I'd just rather it was now than somewhere down the line when we can't see it coming."

Wilson is silent; everything she's saying makes sense but he's still plagued by the thought of House alone in his apartment, mind working even more overtime than usual with nothing to preoccupy him but grief.

"Regardless of any of this, the patient's getting worse a lot faster than I'd expected," Cuddy continues. "I was acting as House's friend last night, which maybe I shouldn't have been, but if it comes down to a choice between him and the patient's life..."

"Right. And I can't see him thanking you for leaving him out of the loop, if the guy dies and he finds out after the fact."

Cuddy sighs, running a hand over her eyes. "I'll wait until the end of the day. If there's still no change, I'll call him in."

She leaves a few minutes later, leaving Wilson to pick at the remnants of his sandwich and stare at the phone. Their conversation has left him with a sudden, intense urge to call House, to check he's alright and not going out of his mind, not coming apart just yet, but he talks himself out of it, reasoning that he'll probably ignore the phone anyway.

It's an immeasurable relief when two o'clock rolls around and he's busy again.

——

When he arrives at the apartment that night he lets himself in without knocking, without really thinking about it. House is seated at the piano, not playing, his fingers resting lightly on the keys and he looks so close to peaceful that Wilson feels an odd pang of regret when he registers his presence, reverie broken.

"Hey," he says quietly, pulling his coat off. House nods, not looking up.

Before Wilson has a chance to open his mouth again, the phone rings, and something in the way House stiffens tells him this isn't the first time. He picks up.

"Hello?"

As he could have predicted, it's another call from Aunt Sarah (her seventh, she tells him shrilly), and he shoots House a look across the room, swapping the phone to his left ear as she continues without any apparent need to draw breath, telling him she has to speak to House, there are things that need to be decided, as the primary benefactor of the estate he needs to see a copy of the will and speak to the family's lawyer about arranging distribution, and what are his feelings on the service, should they put a notice in the paper or keep it private, is a church inappropriate since John was an atheist, does he know whether they wanted to be buried or cremated, and how does he feel about a viewing?

Wilson wards off her queries as best he can given that he has no actual answers, but she's relentless, cutting him off mid-sentence.

"I'm sorry, who did you say you were?"

"James Wilson, I'm a…A friend of the family."

It's almost true, he'd known House's parents for years and Blythe in particular had seemed fond of him. He'd received a Christmas card faithfully each year, ostensibly from them both but clearly in her handwriting. Every year without fail it arrived, always one of the same four designs (snowman, reindeer, robin, holly leaf), and every year he would feel bad and resolve to send them one next Christmas. He wishes now he'd gotten around to it.

"Is Greg available? It's nothing personal, you understand, but I'd prefer to discuss this with him directly."

"Sure, of course." He looks over at House, who's eyeing the phone with a mixture of suspicion and great dislike. Off Wilson's look, he shakes his head once, deliberately, and Wilson winces. "He's, uh…Could I ask him to call you back? Now's not a good time, but I'm sure he'd be happy to talk to you in the morning." In the background House scoffs, and he hopes the lie sounds more convincing than it feels.

"Well, all right. If you would be sure and tell him to call first thing tomorrow. The funeral home needs to know what our plans are for the bodies."

After another few minutes of reassurances, he finally gets her off the phone and hangs up, turning to House with an accusing look.

"You ignored the phone? All day?"

House shrugs, nonchalant. "I was busy."

"Seven calls, House!"

"I had nothing to say to her."

"She's just trying to help. She's—"

"An interfering shrew who married my drunkard of an uncle for his money and has no emotional attachment whatsoever to either of my parents," House finishes flatly. Wilson closes his mouth, deciding against further inquiry.

"Look, okay, she's the devil incarnate. Whatever. She's still not going to leave you alone until you have this conversation."

"What conversation?"

Wilson throws up his hands in frustration. "Come on, you i_know/i_. You've probably been listening to her give the same speech she just gave me, over and over through voicemail all day. She's asking what arrangements you want to make, for the funeral. For—for the bodies."

House's face hardens; he gets up, moving restlessly away from the piano, across the room, aimless. Wilson isn't surprised to see his limp a little more pronounced than usual.

Feeling oddly exposed, he folds his arms over his chest and looks around the room for no particular reason.

"Were you here all day?" he asks to House's turned back. He's standing very still by the window now, leaning heavily on his cane.

"I don't give a damn about the funeral."

He doesn't have much of a response to that, and it's off-putting in any case trying to talk to House in this stance. Statuesque but hunched, silhouetted in the window against the fading sunset, he looks like an image straight out of a collection of slightly pretentious photographs, all black and white, probably called something like "Intimations Of Solitude". Bonnie would've loved them.

In the absence of anything better to do, he heads into the kitchen with a vague notion of trying to scrape together something for dinner. House's supplies are more pathetic than he remembers – aside from a twelve pack, a jar of olives and some questionable cheddar that's mercifully wrapped in cellophane, the refrigerator is empty. The cupboards aren't much more rewarding, yielding only soup, peanut butter and coffee granules.

"Why bother keeping olive oil when there's nothing to cook in it?" he mutters, pushing the bottle aside in vain hope of finding something edible behind.

"Lube."

He starts, turning, and sees House leaning against the door frame with the barest hint of a smirk on his face.

"I'm—what?"

"Lubricant. Works on door hinges, among other things. Handy. It's probably fine for personal use too, if you're into that."

Wilson rolls his eyes, abandoning his search. "That was really more of a single entendre. What do you actually eat these days? You know, on the nights you don't con me into buying you dinner."

"And lo, the Lord created the takeout menu."

"I mean you can cook, I've s_een _you cook before–"

"And He saw that it was good, and offered a half-hour delivery money back guarantee."

"-it's not like you're incapable, just lazy..."

"In evolutionary terms, cooking's going the same way as hunting. Give it a century or two, domestic kitchens will be obsolete."

"Oh, _please_—"

"Humans," House continues, clearly enjoying himself, "strive to obtain the maximum possible result with the minimum amount of effort. You slaughter any cows lately? No, Wal-Mart did it for you. Once somebody figured out a better way, there was no reason for anybody outside of Alaska to go to the trouble of clubbing their own meat over the head anymore."

"Right, that's a legitimate comparison."

"It's a law of human nature, if there's an easier option everybody with the resources to take advantage will. Cooking takes time, effort, money, and it's totally unnecessary in modern society. It's only a matter of time before it gets phased out completely. Sad but true."

"You're assuming the food is the point! A lot of people find cooking therapeutic, the actual process of it, the stages of preparation – perusing the newest Marcelli's menu just doesn't have quite the same effect."

"And those people are doomed, according to Darwin. The fittest of the species figure out the most efficient ways to get what they need and conserve their energy, that's how they survive."

"Uh, not if they die a premature death from clogged arteries and malnutrition. You do know that noodles actually aren't one of the five recognised food groups, right?"

He's looking through one of the menus now, a Thai place he's pretty sure they've ordered from before.

"Because using half a metric ton of oil in everything you cook, that's healthy. At some point you're going to have to accept the fact that you're a dying breed."

Wilson laughs, then; it's part relief and part nervous energy, the absurdity of the argument overwhelming him momentarily, and though he's not looking at House he's pretty sure he's smiling too.

"Fine, okay," he manages, handing over the menu. "You're buying. And I'm getting groceries after work tomorrow."

As it turns out, the food arrives in just under a half hour, and they eat straight out of the containers in front of some god awful E! True Hollywood Story. The saddest part is he's pretty sure he's seen this one before.

After what feels like a long time, he finally asks the question that's been on the tip of his tongue for hours.

"You really don't care?"

"Broadly speaking? I try to hide the pain. It's a defence mechanism, really, every day's a struggle–"

"The funeral," Wilson interrupts softly, cutting through House's weak attempt at evasion. "It really doesn't mean anything?"

"I'm sure it means something to someone. The ritual. People like routines, they like patterns. Predictability gives the comforting impression that life isn't entirely random and beyond any of our control."

"You don't find that comforting?"

House shrugs, a gesture of indifference that doesn't quite ring true.

"No, of course," Wilson says, dryly. "You despise control. You love nothing better than feeling helpless, not knowing the answers. How could I forget?"

"Of course I want control," House snaps, "as much as the next sane person. Doesn't mean I feel the need to delude myself with some empty ritual, or pretend to care whether Mom and Dad's final resting place is six feet under or scattered over some picturesque ocean or, God knows, probably sitting eternally in a really tasteless urn on Dick and Sarah's mantel. It makes no difference, none of it's—" he breaks off, takes a breath like he knows he's been caught out, he's let too much slip. "The outcome's still the same," he finishes stiffly.

Leaning forward to deposit the container of noodles he'd stopped eating long ago, Wilson takes a while before responding, trying to choose his words carefully.

"Death…death's the ultimate loss of control. Reminds us how powerless we are, how much can be taken away in a split second."

"Mm. Am I paying extra for the pearls of wisdom?"

"I'm just saying. There's nothing wrong with feeling powerless. Doesn't even have to be a bad thing, if you can learn to accept it."

"If you're trying to convince me that this is a good thing, much as I admire the attempt…"

"No. No, that's not…what I was saying."

"So what are you saying?"

He opens his mouth, faltering for a minute, then stops. What is he saying? He's not sure anymore; none of this is coming out quite right and he knows he had a point, a good one even, but it's got lost somewhere along the way and i_god/i_ he's just tired.

"I don't know. Maybe I don't really know what I'm saying," he admits.

House nods slightly, taking no apparent pleasure in the admission. Wilson drops his face into his hands for a moment, scrubs a hand tiredly over his face, bright ribbons of light dancing behind his eyelids.

"It's okay," comes House's voice from beside him, gentle and a little impatient. "It's…Look, you get to my age, funerals in the family become less of a possibility and more a probability. I've gotten off pretty lightly so far."

Wilson nods slowly, at once understanding the truth in the words and recognising their deceptive flippancy.

"I know," he says at last. "I just think you should let…I don't know. Let yourself do whatever it is you need to. Don't think too hard about it, don't try and analyse it or diagnose it or turn it into something it's not, just…give yourself some room."

He looks across at House, half-expecting some kind of retort, an eye roll at the very least, but he's regarding the coffee table in silence looking small and weary.

"And if that means taking no interest in the funeral, in the arrangements or any of that stuff, that's fine. Sounds like your family have it covered anyway."

"All I have to do is show up," House confirms flatly. "I do still have to do that, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

Their eyes meet, then, the first time in a while, and for the longest time he can't bring himself to look away. He's always been a little bit obsessed by House's eyes, huge and wide spaced and piercingly, inconceivably blue; but this is something else, something in House's expression he's not sure he's ever quite seen before or ever should have seen, something raw and precious and hidden. He can't bring himself to look away.

House simplifies things by turning away first, abruptly ending the moment as he reaches for the remote and starts flipping channels.

"So what are we watching?" Wilson asks, grateful for the distraction.

"SoapNet. There's an OC marathon till ten."

"So that's what you've been doing all day."

They watch in silence, Wilson letting the words and images wash over him as the tiredness that's been threatening to take him over all day finally wins its battle. It's all he can do to keep his eyes semi-open, his lids beyond heavy and he figures he'll just rest them for a second.

"You know, if you were going to fall asleep and drool on my couch, you could at least have waited for a scene where Mischa Barton isn't wearing a teeny tiny string bikini."

Wilson jerks upright what feels like seconds later, blinking in confusion at the now-blank television screen.

"Really, what kind of self-respecting bachelor are you?"

"The kind that's been awake for forty hours," Wilson mutters. He's exhausted and wants nothing more than to get to bed, wherever that's supposed to be, and he realises suddenly that he's not sure what's expected here, whether he's staying or going.

His dilemma is solved when House, on his way to the kitchen says casually over his shoulder, "Couch is yours."

He sleeps better that night than he has in months, and though he'd like to attribute it to sheer exhaustion he knows there's a part of him that feels more at home here, on this lumpy couch with half-empty food containers inches from his face, than he ever has anywhere else.

He never sleeps as well as he used to, now; most nights he's just restless but sometimes, more often lately, there's nightmares. They're always painfully vivid, hyper-real, so much so that there's always a moment just after he wakes up where he's convinced it was all absolutely real, and even after he's recovered the dream stays with him, dread bleeding into his thoughts for the rest of the day, images burned like sulphur on the backs of his eyelids.

It's getting repetitive now, actually. House is always dead, and there's always someone trying to find the words to tell him. Sometimes it's Cuddy, sobbing, sometimes Foreman, grave and sympathetic with the slightest air of I-told-you-so superiority. Sometimes, inexplicably, it's Grace breaking the news, her eyes boring sorrowfully into him as she glows with an aura of something he supposes is saintly.

Once, it was him. A perfect mirror image of James Wilson, smiling sadly with warm, compassionate eyes and saying the same things he's said to a thousand desperate families. He's pretty sure any shrink would have a field day with that one.

It's been worse for the past year or so, he knows, after the shooting when he'd sat numbly in the same chair for hours and days and nights that blended seamlessly into one another, drinking endless cups of lukewarm coffee and listening to House's steady, respirator-enhanced breathing, clinging to the affirmation it provided. But then there's Christmas, House crumpled face-down in vomit on hardwood and he can still remember it now, the sickening tug in his chest as he'd vaulted the coffee table, numbly convinced for all of a second that this was it, this was the big finish, this was the way the world ended.

But tonight he doesn't dream at all, at least that he remembers, and he wakes up just before his alarm sounds at seven feeling tired, but oddly peaceful. House is still asleep, which he figures is a good thing, and he moves around the apartment as quietly as possible to avoid waking him. Before leaving, the blinking answering machine reminds him of something, and he scrawls a quick note on the back of last night's takeout menu.

_See you tonight (with groceries)._

_CALL THE AUNT._

_W_

——

Several hours later Cuddy finds him in his office, tells him almost exactly what he'd expected to hear.

"We put him on vancomycin overnight. He started improving, was fully awake and coherent at one point, and then his heart stopped Now he's unconscious, completely unresponsive to stimuli, his liver's failing, his kidneys are already shot—" She closes her eyes in exhaustion, massaging her temples with one hand. "House is coming in now. I made the wrong call, I should have got him in sooner."

"At this point, does it even matter? Even if he figures it out…"

"It's probably too late, I know. But try explaining that to the family."

Several hours later, the phone rings. House had solved the puzzle as always but they'd wasted too much time for it to matter, the liver failure had led to a build up of ammonia in the brain which had, in turn, sent the patient into a deep coma he wouldn't come out of.

He finds House moments later, sitting perfectly still in his darkened office.

"Hey," he murmurs.

"You know, you don't need to do that."

"Do...what?"

"Lower your voice till you're basically whispering every time you talk to me. I'm not one of your terminal kids."

"I'll try to project in future," he answers mildly.

"You knew."

It's more a statement than an accusation, requiring no affirmation. Wilson looks away.

"It was Cuddy's decision to make. But…but we talked about it, we thought you needed space, that you shouldn't have to worry about the case when—"

"So, you guys figured a better morale boost would be to wait until it was too late for me to actually do anything, until there was no way the diagnosis was going to be anything other than a death sentence, then decide to tell me my patient was in a coma."

Wilson is silent.

"You know, I'm pretty used to you two dissecting me when I'm not around by now, but I did figure patient care might still take priority over—"

"It was your decision, and you know it," Wilson interrupts steadily. "You're not an idiot, you knew damn well the condition the patient was in when you left, and Cuddy isn't a good enough liar to convince you he'd made a sudden miraculous recovery against all medical reason. You _chose_ to leave the case with your team. You chose not to come in yesterday, and that's what's really bothering you. Because for once in your life something happened to you that you couldn't brush under the carpet or rationalise away, you reacted like any human being would, and now your patient's dead."

"Thanks for the clarification."

"House, your parents—No sane person would go into work right after getting news like that. No one expected you to. You can't beat yourself up because your team failed."

House doesn't respond, his eyes fixed determinedly on the floor, and Wilson has an overwhelming sense that he's fighting a losing battle. Looking at House more closely, he notices for the first time just how utterly worn down he looks; pale, drawn, eyes bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles.

"Are you okay?" he asks, softly, taking another step closer. He can't remember the last time he'd seen House looking this fragile, like he's ready to shatter at the drop of a hat.

"I'm going home."

His meaning couldn't possibly be clearer; Wilson is not invited. He watches wordlessly as House gets to his feet, collects his wallet and keys and leaves, and for a long while afterwards he doesn't move, the crushing reality of returning to the hotel gradually setting in.

Eventually, the pins and needles gathering in his right leg force him to move, and he can't remember ever having walked this slowly as he makes his way down to the parking lot. The drive is over all too quickly, the room is emptier and more painfully impersonal than ever and he feels physically sick, suddenly, his chest tightening as he surveys the newly-made bed and bare off-white walls.

Stomach churning, his eyes move to the Zoloft packet on the bedside table, one more thing that was supposed to be temporary. In retrospect, skipping his dose for the last two days probably hadn't been his smartest move ever; he likes to miss the odd day here and there, some desperately immature desire to prove to himself he's not dependent, that he could manage just fine without them if he wanted to. Idiot.

He sits there on the edge of the bed after swallowing the pill, listening to himself take deep, calming breaths from the diaphragm, until the haze starts to clear and he can think straight again.

He falls asleep hours later, TV droning soothingly in the background, and though he doesn't wake up again it's an uneasy slumber. He's always dimly aware of the room around him and the twilight state gives way, eventually, to yet another unnervingly vivid dream, another version of the same tired nightmare.

House is dead, and this time he can't be sure who it is that's telling him, there's no specific figure he can make out, just a voice from the other end of a phone line, maybe, whispering compassionately into his ear just beyond his line of vision.

Everything around him is a fog and there's only the voice, an absurd mixture of misplaced medical terminology and recycled platitudes, dream-logic dictating the speech so it's half-senseless, meaningless diagnoses recited as if by rote; i_the liver's compromised, there's bullets in the bloodstream, poison in the mind and he's beyond our help now. Can't reach him anymore, you did your best. We did everything we could. _

_I'm sorry for your loss._

He wakes up in a cold sweat, heart pounding sickeningly against his ribs, and spends the rest of the night trying to remember how to breathe.


	2. Chapter 2

He sleeps in the next morning, which he never does, and although he pulls into the parking lot at ten thirty and Cuddy sees him hurrying through the lobby, she doesn't question him. All morning, the phone on his desk is a fixture in his peripheral vision, the constant temptation to call House, to check up on him against all his better judgement.

He has clinic duty from two till five, which is if nothing else a welcome break from his office, and after he finishes he finds Cuddy waiting for him outside the door.

"I've signed him off for the next week," she tells him, as they head towards the elevator. "Chase and Cameron are on call, but if any diagnostic cases come up I'm recommending a referral."

Wilson nods, wondering vaguely whether House had put up much resistance to the enforced leave.

"Did you see him last night?" Cuddy asks, with some trepidation.

"Yeah. Briefly. He took off pretty fast, seemed like he wanted to be alone."

"That doesn't sound like him," she replies dryly. "Has he talked to you about any of the arrangements, the funeral?"

"Last time we spoke he was still avoiding his family's phone calls."

"I just wondered if you were planning on going. With him. I mean, I can give you the days off."

"Oh."

Strangely, he hadn't really thought of that. It seems absurdly obvious, now she's said it, which doesn't make him any surer of how to respond.

"I just assumed – I mean, you knew his parents, they liked you, makes sense you'd go to the funeral."

"I didn't really _know_ them. Not well. Blythe liked me, I think, she liked the idea that House was friends with someone…I don't know. Someone stable, I guess."

Whatever that means, he thinks to himself. She'd told him, once, the one time she'd ever visited House alone, soon after the infarction when Stacy had left and Wilson had all but moved in. It was a short visit; House was bitter and broken and hell to be around, and he'd ended up spending most of the time with Blythe himself, trying in vain to make her feel better.

"I'm just glad he's got a friend like you," she'd said, misty-eyed. "You'll see him through this. I know you will."

He'd nodded, not really knowing what to say, tried to look as sure as she seemed to feel.

"So," Cuddy prompts, jolting him out of his reverie. "I'm sure she'd want you to go. For House, if nothing else."

"You know, I'm not even sure he'd want me there."

"I am," she replies, quietly.

They've reached his office now and they stop just outside the door, Wilson's hand resting on the handle as he considers.

"Well, let me know," Cuddy says finally, breaking the silence. He nods, distracted.

"I will. Thanks."

She smiles weakly, touching his arm as she leaves, and he returns to his desk feeling strangely fortified. Even if House does want to be alone Wilson sure as hell doesn't, not again, not tonight. He doesn't want House alone either, for that matter, alone with his grief and his demons and his damn pills for company, and he's reminded now that he never had picked up those groceries.

——

When he gets back, laden with brown paper bags and reaching for his key, he's surprised to find the door slightly ajar. There's no one in the living room, but he can hear voices and as he looks towards the kitchen he catches sight of House leaning against the counter, and the back of a blonde-haired figure standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"…probably shouldn't have come," Chase is saying, and though Wilson can only see his back every inch of him is screaming discomfort, shoulders hunched, one foot tapping sporadically against the other, arms wrapped loosely around his torso like he's bracing himself for something. "I just, you know. I wanted to…I mean, it sucks. I know. There's not much I can say that's gonna help."

House regards him in silence, and Chase seems to take courage from this as he starts talking faster, words spilling slightly over one another.

"Losing both parents at the same time, that's…I don't know what that's like. But one thing that helped me was talking to people. Eventually. Figuring out there were other people who'd been through the same thing. When my mum died—"

"Look," House interrupts abruptly, and Wilson finds himself wincing involuntarily. "I appreciate you going out of your way to come and share bereavement anecdotes, trying to make me feel better. Really. It's good to be reminded there's always somebody worse off than you, or at least somebody with way more advanced daddy issues, but since I'm pretty sure my mother wasn't a suicidal drunk and it's definitely safe to say I don't go through life desperately seeking the validation and affection I never got from my father, I think the similarities between us probably ended a few exits back."

There's a beat, during which Chase is frozen in place and Wilson reels, silently, trying to absorb. Cuddy's voice echoes suddenly, randomly, in his head; _when he wants to hurt, he knows just where to poke a sharp stick._

The next thing he knows Chase is turning and striding out, barely pausing to look surprised as he barrels past Wilson to the door.

Depositing the grocery bags on the floor, he stares at House, seeing him directly for the first time and he looks terrible, worse than Wilson's seen him look in a long time, pale and sweating and shaking. At that moment, he can't bring himself to care, can't bring himself to feel much of anything before he turns and heads for the door, slamming it unceremoniously behind him.

He catches up with Chase outside on the street, fumbling with his car keys, looking ready to cry or hit somebody or possibly both.

"Chase–"

He looks up, expectant, and Wilson's not really sure what to say next because for all the years that have passed it's still not as if they actually know each other at all, House is the common denominator, and it's funny how many of his relationships that seems to apply to nowadays.

"What he said…he didn't mean it."

"Yeah. He did," Chase nods, and he's right.

"He's not himself."

"You don't have to make excuses for him."

"Probably not," he admits ruefully.

They stand there in silence for a minute, Wilson regarding Chase with an expression he hopes is sympathetic.

"Knew I shouldn't have come," Chase mutters, leaning against the hood of his car. "Like he was ever going to want to hear what I had to say. He'd have to take me seriously first."

"It was a nice thing you did. Coming here, opening up like that when you knew you'd probably get shot down for it. Takes some guts."

"So does baiting a crocodile. Doesn't make it any less idiotic."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but did this visit have anything to do with Cameron?"

He snorts. "It was basically her idea. Once I mentioned it she wouldn't let it go, convinced me I might actually do some good."

"If it had been anyone other than House, you probably would have."

Chase nods, apparently accepting this. He doesn't look any less miserable, and Wilson's not sure what possesses him, whether it's the look on Chase's face or the thought of going back in to deal with House or the even less appealing thought of his waiting hotel room, but he finds himself gesturing towards his car and saying "Come on, get in."

"What?"

"Get in. I'll drive."

"Drive...where?"

"Doesn't matter. Look I just bought groceries, there's two six-packs in my back seat, I don't know about you but I need to get out of here for a few hours, doesn't really matter where to. Just…away. Unless you're dying to get back and tell Cameron how well the house call went, I'm guessing you won't mind coming along."

He winces a little at that last part – below the belt, maybe, not to mention the pun – but it seems to have the desired effect.

They end up in a clearing just off the freeway towards Trenton, sitting on the hood of Wilson's car with a six-pack between them.

"Isn't this, like, where serial killers come to dump the bodies?" Chase asks, looking around at the thick undergrowth as Wilson cracks open two beers.

"Think they tend to go a little further out, maybe around Cape May." He hands a bottle to Chase. "It's a fair bet we might get carjacked at some point, though."

"Hey, it's your car," Chase shrugs. "You know, there are bars that have beer. And snacks."

"Bars have people. Not up for people right now."

"I don't need to tell you who you sound like, right?"

He chuckles, shaking his head as he takes a long drink.

"Well, ten years with the guy, I guess something had to rub off."

"Twelve," Wilson corrects automatically. "It's twelve now. I think."

Chase considers this in silence as they both drink. Wilson's already halfway through his bottle which he figures is probably a bad sign, but in some weird backwards way, the alcohol's actually clearing his head.

Looking over at Chase, he thinks he knows what's coming next.

"You're about to ask me how I did it, aren't you? How I put up with him for all that time, how we're still friends."

"Crossed my mind. Not so much how, though. More like why."

Wilson sighs; this isn't the first time someone's asked him and his answers never feel sufficient, always falling short of what he really wants to say. There's too much, too many things he can't put into words, some things he doesn't want to even if he could.

"He's not…I mean, yeah, he's a jerk. He's impossible a lot of the time, he can be hell to be around, he demands a whole lot more from you than he ever gives back and he's completely unapologetic. Mostly."

He pauses, taking another swallow of beer. He wants to word this right.

"But it's not always—I mean, his conversation. The way his mind works, the ways he challenges you, forces you to think, forces you to look at things. Doesn't let you just…sleepwalk through life."

"Alright, yeah. He's stimulating. I get that. That's enough for maybe a few months. A year, tops. That doesn't keep you coming back for twelve years of aggro."

"You're good," Wilson allows, draining his bottle and reaching for a second. "I don't know. Even with all that…I mean, my blood pressure's probably tripled in the time I've known him. But it's—He's worth it."

He clears his throat, uncomfortable suddenly.

"And he needs you."

Wilson turns sharply, caught off guard by this insight though he guesses he shouldn't be, he's learned from the best.

"And there's that," he concurs. "And he _cares_, more than most people would ever know he cares. Not always for the right reasons, not always when you want him to or when he should, but…when it matters."

He has a vague sense he's getting maudlin, now, which is partly the beer and partly Chase's fault for asking the damn question in the first place. He falls silent, sipping more slowly as Chase opens a second bottle and stares at it intently.

"Twelve years. There's nobody in my life now I've known for that long," he says, finally, his tone matter-of-fact.

Wilson's struck suddenly by how surreal this whole scenario is; of all the ways he'd expected to spend a Friday night, sitting on the hood of his car on some godforsaken stretch of the freeway, drinking like he's back in college and having a heart-to-heart with Chase, of all people.

He wasn't going to bring this up, it's not really any of his business but he figures he's answered one vaguely uncomfortable personal question, and there should be some kind of trade-off.

"What House said, about your mom. Was that—?"

Chase scoffs.

"Come on. You're telling me he didn't run straight to you to blab it as soon as he found out? Seems like fertile ground for cafeteria gossip."

"No. He didn't."

Chase absorbs this.

"You don't have to tell me either," Wilson adds, feeling slightly guilty now for pressing the issue.

"Well, yeah. She drank herself to death, when I was eighteen. It was bad before my dad left, but that…was the final straw. Which is ironic, seeing as it's the reason he left in the first place. Nothing I could do, nothing the doctors could do, not that they tried all that hard, she just didn't care any more. Not enough to live, anyway. Nothing mattered enough. I definitely didn't." He shrugs, a jerky attempt at nonchalance, and takes several long swallows from the bottle in his hand.

Wilson falls silent again, vaguely wishing he hadn't asked. He has no response, other than to say he's sorry and really, when has anyone ever needed to hear that?

"The hardest part," Chase continues, breaking the silence unexpectedly. "The hardest part wasn't really the grieving. At that age anyway, you know, you feel lousy, empty, you cry, you get angry, hit things, feel better for a few days, something sets you off, you cry, get angry, feel nothing, feel better. Which is pretty much alright. But once you start trying to pick up where you left off…that's where it got hard. Because you can't go back, you can't just…slot back into your place and carry on. Trying to relate to people, afterwards, when you know you're different from them, however much you try there's always this huge gulf between you."

"Because they don't know what it's like," Wilson nods, understanding without really knowing why.

"Yeah. Even if they've lost people too, it's like…you get stuck in this mindset. Nobody can possibly understand me, they haven't gone through what I've gone through, they don't know. You get bitter. Turns you into a total narcissist, if you let it."

"Great. Like House needs one more excuse to distance himself from the rest of humanity."

"Course if you're a narcissist to begin with, it might not be a problem," Chase shrugs, trying to lighten the tone. Wilson almost smiles, but there's a weight pressing on his chest. "He'll be alright. I mean it's terrible, losing both at once, but…once you start pushing fifty with the older generation intact you've got to start figuring it's a possibility, right?"

"He said the same thing. But it's not just…He didn't have the most straightforward relationship with them, with his dad especially. As if anybody does."

"How about you?"

"Pass," he responds dryly. "No, I mean, my parents are fine. Trapped in a relatively loveless marriage, mom's a little too keen on the Merlot these days, but you know, fine." He swallows. "But I have…My brother—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. _Don't go there._

His eyes are burning.

"You know, never mind. God. Let's just talk about sports or something."

He's immeasurably grateful when Chase doesn't press him, just watches silently as he reaches for two new bottles, busying himself with the opener. He's sure it can't be right that he's necked three already, in however long it is they've been here, ten minutes, half an hour, the whole night, he's not sure anymore.

——

By the time they finally decide to call it a night and head home, Wilson driving painfully slowly and praying to god the traffic cops are taking a night off, there's already a hint of light on the horizon.

"This is probably the most irresponsible thing I've done in years," he remarks as he takes the exit for Princeton. "That doesn't involve House, anyway. Want me to drop you off?"

"My car's at your place. His place. Whatever. I'll take my own irresponsible chances getting home."

"Two medical professionals from the same hospital, both way over the limit. Cuddy's gonna love us if we get pulled over."

They get back to House's without incident, and once they're out on the street holding their respective keys then, only then, does it get awkward, the alcohol just beginning to wear off.

"So…have a good weekend. Or something," Chase shrugs.

"You too."

They nod at each other, exchange sheepish half-smiles and Wilson turns away, almost laughing to himself at the sheer strangeness of the whole thing.

The lights are all out when he gets in, the grocery bags still on the floor where he left them (milk will be spoiled by now), but he's too tired, too comfortably drowsy to do anything besides pour himself a glass of water and collapse on the couch.

An image swims vaguely behind his closed eyelids of House as he'd last seen him that evening, pale and brittle, eyes bloodshot, and there's something he should be thinking of, something he's missing, something he's missed, but he's too tired and warm and hazy now to worry. Later. Enough for now.

——

He wakes up what can't be more than a few hours later, cold and utterly awake without knowing why. After a few more moments he hears it, a muffled sound from down the hallway.

"House?"

He gets up, feeling his way across the floor. The bed is empty, sheets knotted into a bundle at one side of the mattress, and as he turns into the bathroom he sees House slumped on the floor, back against the bathtub, his breathing laboured and shallow.

"Hey," he starts, dread spinning in his stomach. "House, what did you—" and then it hits him. What had almost, almost occurred last night but gotten lost somewhere in his inebriated brain, the thought finally forming itself into a coherent whole as he leans heavily against the doorframe.

"Haven't seen him like that since Tritter," Chase had said, almost offhandedly, and Wilson's gaze had slid absently to the skin just above Chase's left eye, not that there could be anything there to see now.

He looks down at House, soaked in sweat, bloodshot eyes and dark circles standing out frighteningly against ashen skin, and his mind is racing to put two and two together, coming up with an answer he should have reached long, long before this.

"Cold turkey?" he asks, his voice low and not quite steady. "All this time, I—I was here for two nights and I don't think I saw you take a pill once. Have you…All this time?"

House doesn't answer; his eyes are closed, screwed up, jaw clenched with agony, but his silence, the lingering smell of vomit in the room and the convulsive way he's clutching his leg tells Wilson everything he needs to know.

"You've been in withdrawal. By choice. You…why would you—?"

"Hurts." House chokes the word out like a curse, like a bad taste, and he can't bear to look at him.

"Yeah, I know. Big hole in your leg, no pain meds, does tend to do that. But I don't understand—"

"_Hurts_…'s the point."

House glares at him like he's missing something very, very obvious, and he stops as he opens his mouth to speak again. Remembers. He remembers taping up bruised fingers, running a fingertip over small bones that could only have been broken with intent, shattered by something round and hard.

"Brain has a gating mechanism for pain," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

He wants desperately to press, to ask House why, what he was thinking, what he's trying to avoid that can be so much worse than this.

"So you, you're what? Self-medicating with pain?" he asks instead, softly. He can't bring himself to raise his voice. "You put yourself in withdrawal rather than deal with ...with whatever it is you're actually feeling. Pain gating. Did it work?"

They both know the question's rhetorical. Something aching deep in his chest, Wilson kneels down in front of House who's still clutching his leg in soundless agony, trembling with the effort.

"Come here," he says, finally; it won't do much but there's a massage technique he'd found back in the early days of the infarction, when no drug was strong enough and House was incoherent with pain, half-mad, and he'd had to do something if only to keep from going that way himself. House grabs hold of his wrist as he reaches out, pushing him weakly away.

"House—"

His hand is frozen in mid-motion and he lets it drop briefly to House's arm, gripping lightly, feeling the tremors in his muscles. "It's freezing in here. You should probably…"

But he trails off; House isn't listening to him. His eyes are too bright, gleaming, and Wilson watches as a few tears spill from the corners, maybe unnoticed.

He jumps at the sound as House drives his fist into the wall, punching once, twice, cracking the drywall and Wilson catches his fist on the third time, grappling gently with him.

"House, Jesus, stop! How much pain do you want to be in?" he mutters, running a finger over the bleeding knuckles. Déjà vu.

"Okay, let's go. Come on."

Swiftly, leaving no room for argument he hooks an arm around House's back and levers him painfully to his feet, his grip tightening as House tries to put weight on his leg and hisses, staggering. The few steps to the bedroom have never felt longer.

When he finally lowers House onto the bed and steps back he stops, eyes darting to the night stand in search of the familiar brown bottle.

"Did you get rid of your entire stash?" he asks, incredulously, looking around the room in vain. House looks at him weakly with raised eyebrows (_are you serious?_) and Wilson nods, relieved.

"Why so worried?" House rasps, his attempt at a flippant tone undermined by the way he's forcing out every word like it's costing him everything. "Figured you'd be…down with the detox."

"There is a difference between moderation and cold turkey. You could have—" But he trails off again, the lecture catching in his throat as he figures House was more than aware of each and every potential danger. "So, where are they?"

"Closet."

When he returns, pill bottle in hand, House has dragged himself up to rest against the headboard, eyes closed. He could almost be sleeping, if it weren't for the barely perceptible shudders in his torso and right leg, the agony still etched deep into every line of his face.

"Here."

Straightening, House hesitates, his expression unreadable as Wilson holds out two pills.

"House," Wilson says gently. "Stop it. Take them."

After a beat he does, and Wilson gives silent thanks for the fact that he's physically and mentally beyond the point of further argument.

"You want some water?"

House ignores him, eyes fixed unseeingly on the ceiling as he swallows and Wilson watches, arms folded over his chest as several long minutes pass.

"Seven months."

"What?"

He's caught off guard, somehow, when House breaks the silence.

"It was seven months since I spoke to her," House expands. "She called, every fortnight, left pretty much the same message: sure you're busy, Dad sends his love – that one wasn't even funny the first time – love to talk, call back when you get a chance. Every time."

Wilson sinks slowly onto the bed beside him, thinking.

"You never called back."

House scoffs, a muffled, painful sound. "Like that was a surprise. She knew I wasn't busy, I wasn't going to call back, she just…"

"Just wanted to let you know she was there," Wilson finishes softly. "And now she isn't."

He waits for the retort, the "thanks so much for stating the obvious" rejoinder without really expecting it to come. House is silent, almost motionless now but for the slight tremor in his leg and the slow, pained clenching of his fists.

As he hears a sob he feels a sharp twinge in his chest, and something intangible clicks into place. He has no idea what's changed but it's like something within him has uncoiled and this is all suddenly making sense; he reaches for House and it's the easiest thing he'd done in days, of all the things he's been faced with this is what comes naturally and he figures the fact that he's still a little drunk can't hurt.

"Stop it," he murmurs against the shell of House's ear as he struggles, one arm wrapping tightly around his shoulders. "Come here."

"Wilson," House says, voice ragged, and he gives in then, lets himself be tugged closer and bows his head into the crook of Wilson's neck, shoulders shaking. Wilson is quiet, one hand resting lightly on the back of House's head as he leans more heavily on him and sobs, silently, whole body racked as he unravels almost without a sound.

They settle into a rhythm, a frozen kind of motion, Wilson wrapped around House's shuddering form with his hand stroking absently through sweat-soaked hair. House finds his other sleeve and clutches it in a vice grip and in spite of the awful awkward rawness of it all, the headboard digging uncomfortably into his shoulder blade, the soft, terrible sounds muffled against his sweatshirt and the aching weight of sympathy in his chest, still there's something oddly comfortable about it, something easy.

He listens to House's breathing, feels the exhales slow and even out against his neck after several minutes. Not asleep, he's certain, but lying limp and shattered against Wilson's chest, the agonised shudders having ceased long ago as the Vicodin began to kick in.

The sun's beginning to rise now and the room is uncomfortably light, but he doesn't move, can't even bring himself to try. Though his left leg is going slowly to sleep he doesn't stir, just watching House through half-closed eyelids, until he's not sure which of their breathing he's listening to anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes up with afternoon sun bathing his face, and a quick glance at the clock display tells him he's way beyond oversleeping.

Rising, he moves into the hallway and pauses at the low sound of House's voice, picks up a few words, "service", "irrelevant", "time", and hangs back on the threshold of the living room feeling, even now, somehow intrusive.

"No, I heard you," House is saying, his voice a clipped monotone, "I just chose to disregard what you said. I don't—"

Silence, for a moment, and as House turns his head dismissively from the speaker he catches sight of Wilson.

"Morning," he says over his shoulder loudly, deliberately, then turns back to the phone. "I've gotta go." Another pause. "Again, no. Tomorrow. Yeah."

He hangs up abruptly, tossing the phone aside, and Wilson raises his eyebrows.

"Aunt whatshername, finally?"

"What gave it away?"

"I don't know, something in your tone of boundless enthusiasm, figured you might have been talking to someone you're less than fond of."

"Doesn't really narrow it down."

"Mm. Fair point. So…" Wilson hesitates, even now finding the prospect of House discussing his family at any great length a little alien to conceive. "So, what did she say?"

"Lots of things. Mostly relating to her emotional state. Actually sort of entertaining, if you like Jerry Springer a whole lot."

He looks at House properly for the first time as he gets up, and while he still isn't anyone's definition of a picture of health the transformation from last night, from the feeble, broken shadow that had clung to Wilson in the pale light of dawn, is inconceivable. There's still a pallor to his skin and dark half-moons under his eyes, but his gaze is clear and his movements across the room are confident; there's nothing about him now that looks ready to break.

"When's the funeral?" he asks, finally.

"Monday. She wanted me to fly out there today," House continues from the kitchen, making coffee as he talks. "Get everyone holed up in what passes for the family homestead, really maximise the bonding before the big finish. Basically allow just enough time for Sarah to cook enough food and dish out enough hospitality that by the time she's into the Cava, everyone feels indebted and therefore obliged to listen in deferential silence to her self-pitying accounts of all the ways life did her wrong."

"At least there's Cava," Wilson offers mildly. "Why would you need to fly, anyway, don't your family live in Harrisburg?"

"Parents did. Let's not neglect the past tense." Wilson shifts uncomfortably off House's piercing look. "Dick and Sarah were there till a few years back, she cashed in on his retirement and moved them to some suburban mansion in Allegheny County, near where she grew up. So unless you've got some masochistic craving for a six hour drive to Pittsburgh, we're flying."

"You…" he pauses, gestures vaguely between the two of them for emphasis as House emerges from the kitchen. "You want me to come?"

"Thought that was implied by the plural pronoun. What, you don't want to?"

"Yeah. No, it's just…" he pauses, shakes his head. Not sure why he's finding this so hard to grasp. "I mean, of course. Yeah. If you think it'd be—sure. Yeah."

House stares pointedly at him, one eyebrow slightly raised.

"Great. Glad we got that all straightened out."

"I guess I'm just surprised. You're not exactly the caring-and-sharing type when it comes to – anything, actually, but especially your family. Case in point, I didn't even know this aunt existed until a few days ago."

"No reason for you to. And I never said anything about 'caring'. There's just no way in hell I'm facing those people on my own."

Wilson smiles, feeling a quiet kind of warmth at this thinly-veiled request for his company, the rare hint of something yielding in House.

"Well, after your outstanding character recommendations how could I possibly refuse the chance to actually meet them in person?"

"I'm sure you'll get along great. With Sarah, anyway, you're into all that emotional masochism."

"Lucky for you."

Silence, then, as the previous evening settles gently over them, pressing in like close air before a storm though he's pretty sure the storm has already passed, hopes.

"You okay?" he asks suddenly, and the words don't come out at all as he'd hoped, his voice sounding oddly close to cracking.

House meets his eyes, holds them, doesn't turn away from the question.

"Yeah," and though Wilson's half-surprised at the lack of a sarcastic rebuke he isn't, actually, and he thinks vaguely that they are changing faster than he can keep up with, imperceptible things are shifting under his feet while he's too busy trying to stay upright to notice. It's an oddly comforting thought.

He's beside House, now, they're inches apart without quite knowing how or which of them has moved.

"You look like crap," House murmurs, voice dry and suddenly gentle.

He swallows, tries to smile. "Thanks."

It's true, he realises; his skin is crawling with what he suspects are the remnants of last night's freeway grime and there's a faint taste of beer still in the back of his throat, his hair's probably a mess too but he's not sure any of that's what House is talking about at all. He looks down, finding the gaze suddenly unbearable, and his eyes fall to House's leg.

"Look, are you—?" he begins. "I'm still trying to process the irony of having to ask this question, but have you taken enough Vicodin?"

House pulls a pill bottle from his pocket, shaking it in Wilson's direction for emphasis, and tosses one into the air before catching it theatrically in his mouth.

"Happy?"

Wilson rolls his eyes a little at the gesture, nodding. He's still nowhere close to understanding what had transpired, why House had done what he did, what he was trying to avoid, but he's filled with the overwhelming sense that it's better, for now, to let it lie.

"I'm going to go shower," he says, running a rueful hand through his hair. "And then I would have offered to make pancakes. Macadamia nut, probably," he remarks lightly, watching House's eyes gleam, "but since you didn't bother to refrigerate the milk last night that's not really an option anymore—"

"I put it in this morning. No harm done."

"Dairy, twelve-plus hours without refrigeration. Yeah, that's not a health risk at all."

"Oh relax, it's barely room temperature in here and you're cooking it anyway. Make the damn pancakes."

"Fine, fine," he smirks, watching House out of the corner of his eye. "Just be sure to mention it to your team if I end up hospitalised, before they start trying to diagnose Whipple's disease or something."

"Like you're not dying for Cameron to give you a full-body workover. Surgical gloves included."

"Hey, don't tar me with your kinky brush."

Feeling like a weight has been temporarily lifted, he heads towards the bathroom, smiling to himself at the sound of House's muttered retort.

——

When the phone rings that evening, he looks expectantly at House who raises his eyebrows in response.

"Gonna get that, or—?"

Rolling his eyes, Wilson grabs the phone on its fourth ring, praying to whatever higher power might be listening that it isn't another previously undiscovered relative. He's infinitely relieved to hear Cuddy's voice instead.

"I just wanted to call, see how things are," she's saying, her tone half-apologetic. "I wanted to come over, maybe, was thinking about it earlier but then—I don't know. I wasn't sure."

"I'm glad you called," he assures her, and House gives him a questioning look. "I wanted to talk to you, actually, see if you're still okay with what you mentioned before. The days off."

"You're going to the funeral?"

"If that's alright. I'll be back for Wednesday."

"Of course, do you know the details yet? Is it in Pennsylvania?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's—" he breaks off, overwhelmed by the sense that this is not his conversation to have. "You know what, you should talk to House. I'm guessing that was what you planned on, since normal people actually pick up their own phones once in a while…hang on."

House blinks in surprise as Wilson thrusts the phone at him, not allowing time for protest, and rises from the couch. Ostensibly he's making a start on dinner; in reality he's giving House some privacy for the call, regardless of whether he wants it or not.

A few minutes later, House appears in the doorway.

"So, we've got ourselves a ride to the airport tomorrow."

"Cuddy offered?"

"More like insisted. Guess she really doesn't want us spending our hard earned pay checks on long-term parking."

"The other option being…she wanted to see you."

"Great. I should start charging," House snaps, and Wilson looks up abruptly from the butternut squash he's chopping.

"Is that why?" he asks steadily, after a long silence. "Last night, with Chase? Coming here, he made you feel like…what, like a sideshow? Some kind of exhibit?"

"Your words," House shrugs bitterly. "I sure wasn't under any illusions as to why he was here."

Wilson raises his eyebrows, silently pressing the question.

"An envoy from Cameron I'm guessing, I really doubt he came under his own steam. Sent to survey the damage, figure out just exactly how much of a wreck I was, analyse the stages of breakdown and report back so she could adjust her compassion levels accordingly. Maybe prepare some kind of painfully sympathetic speech for when I go back to work."

"And here I was thinking he was just trying to help," Wilson muttered, picking up the knife again. "You really think Cameron cares that much about you?"

"I think Cameron cares that much about unicellular plant life. She can't help it. Not that there was nothing in it for him, I'm betting he was looking forward to the role reversal. Sort of poetic, after his dad and all."

Wilson sighs, choosing not to rise as he tips the squash into a roasting tin, adds olive oil and seasoning.

"Has anyone ever told you you're kind of a misanthrope?"

"That Word Of The Day calendar's really working out for you, huh?"

"People…help each other out, House. Sometimes when they see a person going through something, something they think they might understand, they just decide to help. Without ulterior motives, without theorising or manipulating or coming up with some weird angle beforehand, which I know might be an alien concept to you. Sometimes people are just decent."

"Please stop. I'm getting teary-eyed. And what the hell are you cooking?"

"You know, your denunciation of my cooking does lose its edge a little when you basically inhale everything I make."

"Pretty sure I'm not going to be inhaling anything that combines blue cheese, nuts and – whatever that was."

"Your loss," Wilson shrugs.

As he's predicted, a couple of hours later House is begrudgingly eating his words, along with his share and Wilson's leftovers.

——

Their flight doesn't leave until one fifteen, but Cuddy picks them up at ten despite the drive being less than a half hour.

"Weekend traffic, can't be too careful," she says by way of explanation, her eyes fixed softly on House.

House mutters something sarcastic under his breath, but there's no real bite behind the words and when Cuddy hugs him, tentative but firm, he doesn't push her away.

Less than surprisingly for a Sunday morning there's next to no traffic on the road at all, and by eleven they're killing time in a coffee bar near departures.

"I hate airports," Cuddy comments, picking absently at the corner of a napkin. "Everybody always looks so hangdog, like they're waiting for some invisible guillotine to fall."

"Flying amounts to pretty much the same thing for some people," Wilson shrugs, wincing slightly as he sips an extra-shot Americano (hadn't slept well again). "So long as they don't lose my bags, I'm fine. Once I hit baggage reclaim, that's where I start to get the dead-man-walking eyes."

House snorts.

"No fate worse than a tie crisis, right?"

"You're flying direct, it'd be pretty impressive if they lost your bags between here and Pittsburgh."

"Can't underestimate the incompetence of underpaid baggage handlers," House rejoins.

The drive over had been largely silent but small-talk comes easily to all of them, now, their conversation at once stilted and intensely soothing. After days upon days spent on edge, walking on eggshells, this by contrast is comfortable, this is easy.

"So. Dare I ask if you're staying with family tonight, or—?"

Wilson opens his mouth to respond as House shoots her a look most accurately translatable as _are you on crack?_

"Seemed like a hotel would be…simpler," Wilson expands, as Cuddy purses her lips and nods.

"There's definitely less odds of things ending in a homicide this way. On our end, anyway, I can't speak for Dick or my dad's military buddies once they're tanked. Could get messy."

He trails off, and Wilson curls his fingers tensely around his coffee cup. They've moved out of small talk, suddenly, there's something in House's eyes that's anything but easy, and Cuddy's gaze meets Wilson's in silent, nervous acknowledgement.

"We're up," House says abruptly, breaking the silence after a couple of long moments to gesture at the departures board behind them.

They stand, Wilson draining the last of his pure-caffeine beverage, and Cuddy goes with them as far as security will allow.

"Take care," she says, squeezing Wilson's arm and turning to House. "Maybe try not to instil widespread panic on this flight, okay?"

"One guy with decompression sickness, not my fault everybody else jumped to conclusions."

"Uh-huh."

Smiling, she gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. Her eyes linger on Wilson, something unreadable in her expression, and as she turns to leave with a final squeeze of House's arm he stares after her for a moment, feeling vaguely that there's something he's missed, until House's nudge breaks him from his reverie.

——

"Not bad."

Hours later, Wilson stares around at their none-too-shabby hotel room, taking in the wall hangings, the thick carpet, the dark wood panelling and rustic furniture. Through the French windows there's a balcony, looking out onto thick forestry and the outskirts of the city.

"What is this, a suite?"

"Don't feel too special," House replies, dropping his bag unceremoniously onto one of the twin beds. "Only room they had left at a day's notice. It was this or the honeymoon suite, and I didn't want you misconstruing my intentions. Besides, I figure why not celebrate the occasion?"

Grimacing, Wilson removes his black suit from the top of his case and hangs it up in the closet.

"So, what time do you need to be there tonight?"

"Again, you're having issues with your pronouns. The enforced family bonding's due to start at six – I figure if we roll up around seven with a few drinks in us already, the whole thing should slip by pretty painlessly."

Bending, House opens the mini-bar and pulls out two Jack Daniels miniatures with a flourish. "Catch."

"Good to know you're keeping a healthy perspective," Wilson answers dryly, narrowly catching the bottle House tosses at him. "But okay—family bonding? Whatever this gathering is tonight, it sounds like something I maybe shouldn't come to."

Much as he doesn't relish the idea of spending an evening trying to contrive ways to kill time in yet another empty hotel room, he's even less keen to spend the time feeling like a gatecrasher amongst a circle of quietly mourning relatives.

"Believe me, I use the term "family" loosely. Given that said family actually consists, in blood terms, of me, Dick and Sarah, you really don't need to feel like you're imposing."

"So why—"

"'Small family gathering' is, I'm guessing, code for 'an excuse to invite every human being who may have had even the most tenuous of links to my parents to admire their impeccably decorated home', and a way for Sarah to validate her own existence by reminding herself that even if her life's ended up a dismal, meaningless waste she can still throw a damn good party."

"Okay," Wilson answers evenly, his mental image of Aunt Sarah shifting and sliding out of focus around this latest tidbit of information. "So she's, what, a burnt-out socialite?"

"Only career she's ever had. She's one of those people that collects acquaintances like loose change. Which is pretty much the best position to be in if you're planning a self-indulgent party."

"Right, which you would know all about."

House ignores this.

"So as far as your welcome at this thing goes – don't sweat it. You'll be no more out of place than the fifty-odd hangers-on who'll probably come crawling out of the woodwork having been out of contact for years. Only difference is you're not there solely for the free booze."

"And to think I called you misanthropic."

"Hey, I don't know, maybe not," House shrugs. "Maybe it'll be a really uncomfortably intimate affair with the fam and a select few of their closest friends all sitting around a log fire swapping anecdotes and Kleenex. Either way, you're coming."

Wilson takes a deep breath, his reluctance waning in the face of House's barely-concealed apprehension. There's something about his words that isn't adding up, the exaggerated bile ringing hollow like it's a front or a distraction, maybe.

"What is it?" he asks quietly, uncertainty getting the better of him as he takes a step forward. "There's something about this—something that's getting to you. Like, beyond your general hatred for human beings and social gatherings."

He watches closely, searching for a reaction.

"Wilson..."

House's tone is low and weary, bordering on desperate as he looks over with an expression that's half warning, half pleading. _Don't._ The message couldn't be clearer and he knows better than to push this, now.

"Okay," he says gently, like he's afraid to disturb the air. "It's alright. I'll come."

He turns away, moves to the windows and the narrow balcony beyond.

"Who the hell comes to Pittsburgh on their honeymoon, anyway?" he mutters, pushing the windows open in some attempt at release, trying to find space where the room is suddenly unbearable, claustrophobic, choked to the brim with something unspoken.

The air outside is muggy, cloying with humidity, and as he squints into the distance he can make out storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

——

When they arrive at the house it's almost exactly as Wilson had pictured, right down to the immaculate front yard and honest-to-god white picket fence.

The door is opened by a petite, frail-looking woman, her face framed by a not-quite-convincing brunette dye job.

"Greg!"

She all but throws herself on House, who grimaces at Wilson over her shoulder and mutters "Hi, Sarah," arms pinned firmly at his sides.

Drawing back a little, she catches sight of Wilson who shuffles awkwardly on the spot, trying for a smile.

"This is Doctor Wilson," House says, coming unexpectedly to the rescue.

"James," he expands, and her expression relaxes.

"We spoke on the phone."

"Yes. Yeah. It's good to meet you."

He puts out a hand and she shakes it, giving him a watery smile.

"I'm glad you're here," she tells House, who manages a tight-lipped smile in return as she ushers them inside.

"Wow. I see what you meant, she's a real terror," Wilson mutters sarcastically under his breath as they follow Sarah down a narrow, oak-panelled hallway.

House doesn't respond, his eyes fixed on a point directly ahead, and as Wilson turns he sees another figure moving towards them, at once familiar and entirely strange.

"Greg," he says as he reaches them, holding out a hand. "Good to see you."

"Dick."

House's tone is clipped as he briefly returns the handshake, the ending "k" dismissively exaggerated. There's a moment of not-quite-tense silence before Richard turns.

"You must be Wilson. James, right?"

He blinks.

"Blythe used to talk about you."

"Right."

"Something wrong?" Richard asks, off Wilson's undoubtedly unnerving stare.

"No, no, it's just that you, uh—You look a little like your brother."

He smiles nervously, praying to God he hasn't violated some unspoken taboo in acknowledging the dead. If there's one thing years of oncology has taught him it's that every grieving family has its own rules, its own particular code of silence. To his relief, Richard laughs just a little too heartily.

"People always used to figure us for twins." He claps Wilson on the shoulder, shaking his hand so ferociously he barely suppresses a yelp of pain. "Good to have you here."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees House watching this exchange with an unreadable expression.

As Richard releases his hand he tries to catch House's eye but he's turned away already, following Sarah down the hallway, leaving Wilson to walk alongside Richard.

_Great. Let the awkward small talk commence._

"Sorry we're a little late," he says, matching Richard's painfully jovial tone. "I think the cab driver took us the longest possible way round, figured we were out-of-towners who didn't know any better."

Richard chuckles. "Don't sweat it. Everybody's through in the dining room. I told Sarah we should just have it in the lounge – more personal, y'know, just family – but that's before she invited half her damn phone book. She wanted something bigger, I guess, send John and Blythe off in style."

Wilson nods, breathing an inward sigh of relief as the mental image of himself sitting awkwardly in the midst of a small, close-knit circle of grieving family begins to disintegrate.

"You've got a beautiful house," he offers, as they move through the marble and oak kitchen.

"Moved in five years ago and re-did the whole place – Sarah did, at any rate, I pretty much sat back and kept my nose out of it. Harrisburg was fine but with just the two of us, wasn't anything much keeping us there in the end. Sarah grew up around here, got the roots, y'know. You got kids?"

"Uh, no. No, I haven't."

He's saved from having to expand any further as they turn along a short corridor into a wide, high-ceilinged room, filled with what Wilson figures to be at least fifty or sixty people.

"Wow," he murmurs, taken aback by just how accurate House's earlier assessment had been.

"That's one hell of a phone book Sarah's got," Richard says, giving him another hearty clap on the shoulder and turning away to a nearby huddle of guests. "Help yourself to drinks."

Raising his eyebrows, Wilson spots House over by the drinks table and moves over to join him.

"Well, at least I didn't need to worry about blending in. Haven't seen this many people in one room since that oncology benefit where Peavey auctioned off a dance with his wife."

House mutters something inaudible under his breath, his back to Wilson as he pours what looks like a disproportionate measure of wine into a faux-crystal glass.

"What?"

"I said, so go blend. Vacuous small talk, insincere enthusiasm, that enviable ability to interact pleasantly with anybody and everybody regardless of their character or conversational ability – seems like you're in your element. It's no coincidence you always went down so well at those department sponsorship events."

"You know I hate those things. And what, you're pissed because I made conversation with your family? Crazy move on my part, I know, but for some reason I had this idea that's what people did in social situations."

House turns, his expression blithely neutral.

"Hey, I don't begrudge you the right to socialise. Actually, I don't want to hold you back. Dick's over there, if you guys want to carry on bonding."

He begins to walk away and Wilson opens his mouth, momentarily stunned.

"So what, you were desperate for me to come to this thing, but you don't actually want me anywhere near you for the duration?"

House turns back, his eyes narrowed in an exaggerated mockery of deep thought. "I guess."

Wilson stares after his retreating back, frozen with a mixture of sickening anger and something else, something raw and uncomfortably juvenile. His throat closes up for a moment and he feels suddenly exposed, alone in a room full of strangers.

"Asshole," he whispers hoarsely under his breath, turning away and picking up a glass of the nearest drink to hand.

——

An hour or so later, he's sitting on a window seat with a woman whose name he's struggling desperately to remember all but crying into his shoulder, thinking vaguely that he isn't nearly as drunk as he ought to be.

After only a few torturous moments of standing awkwardly by the drinks table, sipping Rosé and scouring the crowd in vain search of a conversational opening, she'd come up to him and introduced herself. He'd missed most of the details of her relation to House's parents, largely because she'd started crying within the first few sentences and he hadn't managed to make out much of what she'd said after that. It was awkward, to an extent, but immeasurably less so than standing in the corner alone, or trying to strike up impromptu conversations with mourning strangers.

He can hear House's voice in his head. _Fast work, Jimmy, less than an hour in and you've latched onto the neediest woman in the room._

"So," he starts, wanting to fill the silence, "you were close with Blythe?"

"She was like a mom to me," she (Abigail? Apricot?) sniffs. "I'm sorry, God, I haven't even asked – are you a relative?"

"No, I'm a family friend. Sort of. I'm here with their son, Greg."

"Oh right," she murmurs, her features contracting a little with sympathy. "The one with the…the leg? She mentioned him a few times. Poor guy."

Wilson winces, glancing around impulsively to check House is out of earshot. The last time he'd caught a glimpse he'd been leaning against the back wall, watching proceedings with a gaze just unfocused enough to let Wilson know the drink he was nursing was nowhere close to his first.

A big part of him had wanted to go over, do some damage control if only to save himself from having to literally pour House into a cab before the evening was over, but residual scraps of anger were still twisting in his gut and he couldn't bring himself to ignore them.

"Isn't that him over there?" Abby (he's hedging his bets) asks, and as he glances round he catches sight of House several feet away, having what looks to be an in-depth conversation with none other than Richard.

"Uh, yeah."

He looks away after a moment, trying to ignore his sudden, irrational impulse to intervene. Maybe the two of them can bury whatever hatchet they need to bury, and the funeral tomorrow can pass just a little more painlessly.

"Did you meet through work?"

He nods, distracted in spite of himself.

"So you're a doctor?"

Her hand is on his arm and he smiles ruefully; of all the problems he's anticipated, this hadn't really occurred, though he's not really sure why he's seeing it as a problem. She's attractive enough, and decent company once she'd stopped crying, and it's not as if he's even been on a date in god knows how long.

Forcing his gaze away from House, he makes an effort to sound interested.

"I'm in oncology."

"That's cancer, right? God. You're lucky, you know, being able to wake up for work every day knowing you're actually saving lives?"

"Not always," Wilson amends, cringing inwardly at the near-awe in her eyes. "I mean, treatments are always developing, but in a lot of cases it's more about palliative care than anything."

"But at least you're making a difference. I've been in landscape gardening for nine years, whose life am I supposed to be making better?"

"Oh, I don't know, I've known some people who are pretty attached to their gardens."

She smiles. "Funerals put everything else in perspective. Make you realise how short life is, or something. But then I guess working with cancer patients, you wouldn't really need the reminder."

He opens his mouth to reply, but stops as the sound of glass shattering cuts through the buzz of conversation, leaving silence in its wake. He's on his feet almost involuntarily, moving forward before he understands why.

House and Richard are facing each other, one smiling bitterly, the other with his hands raised in a would-be pacifying stance, and as Wilson nudges through the crowd of onlookers he pauses, listening.

"Just take it easy, Greg," Richard is saying, hands still raised. "This isn't the place for a scene."

"Yeah, I guess it would look bad. Wouldn't want to give all these fine people the wrong idea, right?"

They're speaking quietly, so quietly that the noise level around them is returning to normal as people move on, dismiss the glass as an accident.

"Then again, I'm pretty sure half the people in this room have never even met my parents, maybe it's only fair they should learn something about the family they're leeching off."

House's voice is distinctly slurred but there's something deliberate about his words, his eyes clear and dark.

"You're upset, I get that," Richard says, his voice raising a little in contrast to House's deadly murmur. "Behaving like a child isn't doing anybody any good."

"Right, but you always had pretty strict ideas about how children should behave, didn't you? Like brother like brother."

"Come on," Richard says, ignoring House's comment and moving closer to him. "There's no need to be doing this. Just take it easy."

He reaches out a hand, patting House on the shoulder as if to call a truce. House recoils like he's been burned, lunges forward and in a beat Richard is staggering backwards, holding his bruised jaw as onlookers gasp audibly.

Glass crunches under Wilson's feet as he moves forward to grab hold of House, holding him back though he's not moving anymore, just staring fixedly at Richard who's straightened up and meeting his gaze stonily.

"I'm glad as hell John isn't around to see this. It'd break his heart to see what you've come to."

House bows his head and laughs, soundlessly, his shoulders shuddering in Wilson's grip.

"You know, you're probably right. Pretty sure I was never anything close to the son he wanted."

"Got that right," Richard says, turning away.

"But hey, you can't always get what you want," House continues loudly, voice brimming with brittle elation. "I can live with that. It all works out pretty much even in the end. At least I have the luxury of knowing that you and your barren wife never got the chance to fuck up any kids of your own. Almost makes me think there is a God."

Before Wilson has time to react, Richard has whipped around and moved with lightning speed, grabbing hold of House by the collar and driving a knee into his weak leg. House crumples to the ground with a ragged gasp and for a moment, all he sees is red.

Everything moves in slow motion, and when he can see straight again he finds himself facing Richard head on, House on the floor behind him. Richard steps forward, eyes dark and Wilson shoves him back violently, fists clenching at his sides as anger, intense, unfamiliar anger pulses through him like adrenaline.

"Back off," he grinds out, raising both hands in warning as Richard moves forth again. "_Back off._"

Richard eyes him for a long moment, breathing heavily, then turns away.

"You're not worth it," he mutters to House in disgust, pushing his way past the now very large gathering of onlookers.

Wilson takes a deep breath, waits for the blood to stop pounding in his ears, turns.

"We're leaving," he mutters. He half expects House to refuse the proffered arm but he is silent and very still, allowing Wilson to pull him to his feet and place his arm around his own shoulders for support.

House's grip on his shoulder tightens as they brush past Richard, whose jaw is already turning a vaguely nauseating shade of deep purple, they make slow progress through the crowd of hungry, curious gazes and all he can think about is getting out, getting away, forcing this scene to be over.

House doesn't say a word during the cab ride home, his gaze fixed steadily on a point just above the seat in front of him, not moving at all except to dry swallow what looks like a small handful of Vicodin. When they arrive, Wilson offers him an arm and he ignores it, leaning heavily on his cane with his right leg trembling painfully as they move into the hotel.

"How is it?" Wilson asks wearily, once they're finally inside. He slumps onto the edge of his bed feeling suddenly, impossibly drained.

House doesn't respond, his back turned to Wilson as he coils foetal on his bed, not troubling to remove any more than his shoes and jacket.

"The leg," Wilson expands futilely, watching the curve of House's shoulder silhouetted against the darkened sky.

He should draw the curtains, he thinks vaguely, but his limbs are suddenly heavy and the white-hot anger that had pounded through him earlier has been replaced with lead, making the thought of any movement insurmountable.

He watches House for a long time, listens until his silence blends seamlessly into the slow, deep breaths of light sleep. It's a lot longer before Wilson musters the energy to change, brush his teeth and crawl under the layers of tightly tucked sheets, the evening's events still spinning and blurring behind his eyelids.

——

He can't move.

He'd thought his limbs were heavy before but this is different, this is worse, he tries to walk and it's like swimming in rapidly-drying cement, like taking a step through quicksand, and he's running as fast as he can without moving at all, his surroundings shifting around him and he can see someone nearby, more than one, maybe, faceless but somehow familiar.

"My legs…" he rasps out, his voice foreign and strange in his ears, too deep, too slow. "What's…what—"

"Take it easy, Wilson."

He blinks, moves forward in slow motion as the figure solidifies itself; John House, dressed inexplicably in full military regalia with a serene look on his face.

"Where's House?" Wilson asks, the words cracking and echoing in the muggy air as dread curls sickeningly around his insides.

"He's not here. You know that."

"You're dead," he mutters, and none of this is making sense and yet, and yet, and yet. "You're…Where is he? _Where is he?_"

"I'm sorry for you. I truly am. Nobody tried harder, Blythe always said…you did your best. It's nobody's fault."

"No."

He lashes out blindly, reaching for something to grasp onto, something to feel, anything. Nothing. Around him, everything is shifting again, he can't see John anymore but there's someone else, and maybe it's been him all along, maybe the difference doesn't matter.

"I don't want there to be any hard feelings," comes the familiar, jovial tone. "You seem like a real decent guy. Greg was just…He was always headed for this."

"You've done something, you…what have you done to him?"

"He did it to himself."

Everything is getting darker.

"House—?"

He's screaming, now, he can feel his throat growing hoarse with the effort but he's barely making a sound, his voice emerging as a cracked half-whisper. The darkness shifts inside his eyes and for a moment he sees him, House, prone and ashen and gone, his voice echoing somewhere nearby.

"_Wilson._"

No.

_House._

"Wilson."

He wakes up with a sickening jolt, one hand twisted violently into the sheets and for one disoriented moment, he knows true panic.

"Wilson."

Logic seeping slowly back into his consciousness at the gentle voice, he takes a ragged breath in and turns. House is watching him from the window, his stance uncertain as if on the brink of motion.

"Yeah," he breathes, after a moment. "What…"

His mind is racing, stuck uneasily in the twilight border between asleep and fully awake. He blinks, rubs sleep from his eyes and leftover imagery etches itself across his eyelids, glowing worms of colour, blurring faces, Richard's chuckle, his own breaking voice. House's empty body.

Swallowing, he reaches for the bedside lamp, flicking the switch to no avail.

"Not working," House murmurs. "Power cut or something, the whole building's out."

"Oh."

He sits up, becoming aware for the first time that the room is far from silent. The storm clouds have given way to loud, torrential rain and he doesn't move for a few minutes, head in his hands, listening to the soothing rhythm of the drops as the knot in his stomach slowly unravels.

"How long have you been up?" he asks at last.

"A while. Not that it mattered. Pretty sure I would've woken up anyway around the time you started screaming my name."

He looks sharply at House, at the eyes boring into him and it's like he knows, like he can see right through him.

Throat dry, he opens his mouth and stops, because what the hell is he going to say? _Not to pile on any extra drama the night before your parents' funeral, but I'm apparently incapable of getting more than a few hours of sleep at a time because I'm so irrationally terrified of losing you that every time I close my eyes my subconscious mind becomes a late-night movie theatre I can't walk out of and the only thing playing is 101 Ways To Watch Gregory House Die._

"Least we're starting to get to the bottom of why all those marriages failed."

Wilson snorts weakly in spite of himself, relieved as the quip lets him off the hook. Pushing the twisted covers away from his legs, he feels his way across the darkened room to the mini bar, pulls out an overpriced bottle of water and sips, never taking his eyes off House.

"Take a picture," House mutters, off his gaze, "it'll last longer. And be marginally less unnerving."

He shakes his head slightly, the last vestiges of the dream displaced suddenly by vivid, more pressing memories.

"What…was that?"

House raises an eyebrow.

"You tell me. Your subconscious. If whatever you dreamt involved me going through any tunnels, we probably need to talk."

"\Before. At...at the house. What the hell happened?"

"Lots of things. Drinks were had, meaningless platitudes exchanged…"

Wilson rolls his eyes inwardly. It's force of habit at this point, House going through the motions of evasion and him listening patiently when they both know this can't be put off any longer, the silence has reached its breaking point.

"You mingled," House continues. "I didn't. You outdid yourself, actually, especially with that overly curvy brunette in the corner."

"You don't get to do this anymore."

"Mock your proclivity for clingy MILFs?"

"Not a MILF. Not the point. You don't get to play the 'family issues, keep out' card, make me feel like it's not my business to ask. You made it my business the minute you dragged me out here and thrust me right into the middle of this insane family dynamic without so much as a word of warning." He pauses for breath. "You wanted me here, I'm here. The least you owe me after…tonight, after all this, is an explanation."

"The least I owe you?" House turns with a bitter smile. "Didn't realise we were operating on a savings and loan basis."

"What happened with Richard?" Wilson asks slowly, deliberately, refusing to be deterred.

"Why not ask him? Looked to me like the start of a beautiful friendship between you guys."

"What…" He's beyond confused by the level of bile in House's tone, the sheer extent of his overreaction. "House. We talked for maybe all of four minutes. Where's all this coming from? Why does my making civil conversation with the man constitute this huge betrayal for you?"

"I guess I'm just surprised you didn't see through the faux-Texan hearty soccer dad routine. I mean sure, it's worked out pretty well for the Bush administration—"

"He seemed like a perfectly decent guy. My lack of any deeper knowledge of him might not be unrelated to the fact that you do nothing but dodge my questions every time I try to figure out why you hate him so much."

"Hey, I hate most people," House says blithely. "And you're finding it pretty easy to forget that you didn't seem so hot on him yourself towards the end there."

"Your leg, that was—" he swallows, recalling a second of pounding, sickening anger. "He was out of line. So were you, come to that. Stop making this about me."

House opens his mouth as if to say something, falters. Turns away with a dismissive shake of his head.

"What is it?"

He steps closer, pushing, persisting.

"What is it?" he asks again, more softly. "Come on, what…did he do to you?"

Another long silence but it's different now, like something has quietly given way. House lets out a sigh.

"It's really not the dramatic childhood trauma you're probably expecting. It isn't even all that interesting, comparatively speaking. Ancient history."

"Still. I'm listening."

House shifts on the spot, shrugging as if to emphasise the inconsequentiality of whatever he's about to say.

"Well, you were there. You heard what I said, there's not much more to it than that. Him and my dad were cut from the same cloth, both in the Marines, both had the same military mindset beaten into them - obey the rules, enforce the rules, look at the world in black and white and ignore all the messy stuff in between. Dick had pretty definite ideas about kids, about discipline. My seven year old self didn't necessarily share his viewpoint."

Wilson swallows, feeling the vaguest edge of nausea.

"So, what? He—he hit you?" he asks, nearly tripping over the words in his effort to get them out quickly, cringing inwardly at the crudeness of their impact.

"Sure. Once. I was seven, maybe eight, got left with Dick one weekend near Christmas when my parents were out of town. He sent me out to play around in this ridiculous acre of land he had as his back yard back then – really long grass, whole bunch of trees, endless ways for a kid stuck somewhere he doesn't want to be to get himself lost. I don't remember what the hell I actually did out there, but I stayed out way past dark, probably really enjoyed ignoring him when he yelled for me to come in."

"Well, it's good to know your penchant for bucking authority isn't a new thing," Wilson murmurs, filling the silence redundantly.

"When I finally got in, he was waiting for me. Went nuts, chewed me out, called me a whole bunch of names that probably weren't fit for my young and innocent ears. Let me know in physical terms just how little he appreciated my pre-adolescent rebellion. Then told me if I liked being outdoors so much, I could spend the night out there."

Wilson winces.

"Pennsylvania, in winter? Must have been a good time."

"Wasn't that bad. I probably should have ended up with hypothermia by all rights, but it was one night. It was actually kind of exciting at the time, like camping without a tent. Or a sleeping bag."

House glances at Wilson, takes in his confused expression.

"That weekend wasn't the problem. One night outside, I could deal with. Probably wouldn't even remember it by now. But when my dad came to pick me up, Dick told him the whole story, convinced him I was getting out of hand. I doubt he took much convincing, probably told him I needed to be reigned in fast or I'd end up some juvvie-bound burnout. A disappointment. Which I think was an opinion he was already predisposed to."

House falls silent, shakes a pill into his hand and swallows.

"So…" Wilson starts, furrowing his brow, trying not to misunderstand, "so…what, okay. Richard did this. Made you sleep outside. And then—then your dad, he did the same thing?"

House lets the silence hang for a moment, lets the question answer itself.

"Just once?"

Again, he doesn't really need an answer.

"You ever read The Great Santini?"

Wilson nods slightly, knowing where this is going. House is silent for a moment.

"He had a thing about the cold. I don't know why, maybe something leftover from the Corps. Seemed to think one of the worst experiences a person could have was being freezing cold, like so cold you actually start to feel like your entire body's on fire. See, ice baths, they're great for athletes in training. Not so great for pretty much anybody else. That was his go-to punishment, whenever I'd earned it. Yard, or ice bath. Both, a couple of times."

House turns his head slightly, still not facing Wilson, pauses.

"So in answer to your question, I guess it's really more a question of what my dad did. Dick was just…the forerunner. The impetus. The seed from which grew a glorious and fertile tree of unresolved issues. And a lot of really long, cold nights."

Processing, Wilson sinks onto the bed, stares numbly out at rivulets of water cascading over the glass panes. He'd always found rain somehow soothing when he wasn't caught up in it, always relished the feeling of being tucked securely indoors while the sky shatters and bleeds around him.

"How long?" he asks at last, his voice strained. He can feel something rising in the back of his throat.

"A few years, I don't know. Long enough for him to figure out I was never going to be the son he wanted, regardless of how many near-hypothermia experiences I had."

Wilson scrubs his hands roughly over his face, trying to reconcile his image of John – a little guarded, tightly-wound, but essentially decent – with this. This cruelty.

"The ironic thing was, he thought all this stuff was going to reform me. All it actually did was make me go out of my way to piss him off, goad him into it."

"What—why? Why would you inflict that on yourself?"

House pauses.

"I think I figured if I forced him to it enough times, at some point he had to just stop. Like I had to believe there were only so many times he could shut the door in my face, or watch me try to get the feeling back into my extremities after an hour in ice, before he had to come to his senses, and…remember he was my dad. Remember he was meant to feel something for me besides contempt. I convinced myself one day there'd be a different outcome."

House's tone is painfully dispassionate, almost a monotone, but there's something brittle in the rigidness of his back, the coiled tension in his shoulders as he wraps his arms loosely around his torso.

"Your mom, she never knew?"

He's getting sick of his every sentence being a question but he has to ask, has to keep searching, has to make sense of this.

"I don't think so," House shrugs. "I certainly never told her – not sure she would have believed me. You knew her, she always had to think the best of people."

"How could you…I mean, how could she not have noticed?"

"I was glad she never did. Would have destroyed her, probably. She spent her whole life as a housewife, this ridiculously idealised view of the happy family unit was all that kept her going."

Wilson absorbs in silence, reeling under a mixture of anger and aching sadness, sadness on behalf of a child he'd never met, a version of House he'd never known.

"Bastard," he mutters under his breath, barely realising he's spoken.

"Which one?"

"Both. Him. I don't know. God, House..."

He's shaking a little, he realises, nails digging hard into his palms.

"Calm down," House mutters. "It was a long time ago. Hell, I barely remember most of it now."

"There's a pretty impressive bruise on your uncle's face right now that begs to differ."

"What do you want from me?" House asks tiredly. "It's over. He's dead. Who cares?" Looking suddenly drained, he moves unsteadily back from the window and sinks down onto the bed beside Wilson, head in his hands.

The silence settles around them, raindrops still pounding rhythmically on the roof to create a cocoon of white noise, soothing the air between them like cold water on burned skin.

"It was a long time ago," House repeats at last, voice strained. "Shouldn't even have brought it up, it's not…relevant any more. It's in the past."

"Doesn't mean it's over."

He watches out of the corner of his eye as House nods a little, conceding.

"Which was worse?" he asks then, so softly he thinks House could probably pretend not to hear if he chose.

"What?"

"Out of the two. The—the ice baths, or the nights outside?"

House looks at him with a mildly perplexed expression and Wilson shrugs apologetically, unsure of himself.

"Okay. Weird question."

There's almost a smile on House's face as he considers, relief, like he's letting go of something. "The bath."

"Really?"

"Sure, it's over faster. But at least out in the yard I was alone. Didn't have to look at him, didn't have to watch him look at me. Could almost pretend it was my choice to be out there."

Wilson looks down uncomfortably as he swallows, eyes prickling suddenly.

"Okay," he whispers, without knowing why. "Okay."

His shoulder brushes against House's and he freezes, stays in place, desperate suddenly for the contact. House doesn't move away.

They don't talk again for a long time.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun rises the next morning behind layers of grey cloud. Wilson watches from his seat at the foot of the bed, hoary light congealing slowly over the trees outside as House dozes fitfully beside him.

His mind feels like it's moving in slow motion, bogged down with the fatigue of trying to process what he's heard, trying to know what to do with it. The most immediate reaction he can find within himself, burning sickeningly in his gut, isn't one that helps him, because there's nowhere he can direct it and no use he can put it to. He's pretty sure anger towards a dead man never did much good for anybody.

He tells himself he never knew John, will never understand him or what he did or any of the ways his mind worked, and that he's probably the better off for it. What he's not sure about is whether he understands House better now, for knowing this, whether he should or whether it really makes much of a difference at all.

He's tired of thinking so hard.

They shower and dress in black and go down to breakfast almost without exchanging a word, almost without needing to.

"So what did you decide?" he asks eventually over the rim of his mug. "About…about the arrangements. Is there a burial, or…?"

House shakes his head. "Cremation. What my mom wanted, apparently. I'm guessing he didn't care much one way or the other, so."

"What time's the service?"

"Two. Then there's some drinks thing at the funeral home."

"You want to go?"

House shrugs noncommittally, eyes distant, and Wilson gives up.

As it turns out it's a relatively small affair, in contrast to the wake there's maybe twenty people in the room when they finally make their entrance. Richard looks up as they move to their seats, nods slightly at Wilson who manages a jerk of his head in response, eyes averted.

At the front of the room, John and Blythe's bodies are laid out in matching coffins, serene faces just visible from where they're sitting and he swallows hard, looking down at his feet. He's always found this tradition vaguely morbid, the embalming and scrutinising of the body, maintaining the illusion of something that no longer exists.

He glances at House, searching for a reaction, but he's staring straight ahead and it's hard to tell if he's gazing at the bodies of his parents or looking straight through them, unseeing.

He tries and fails to concentrate for most of the service, his thoughts wandering back to last night, to early that morning, the images still burrowed into his skull. He's fleetingly aware of Father Steve reflecting that although John wasn't a man of God he was nevertheless a man of strong beliefs, beliefs he upheld in his everyday life, and how Blythe was one of their most loyal parishioners, how she'd come to church every Sunday like clockwork, always alone, always with a smile.

House's face is a mask throughout, his expression not flickering even the eulogies begin and Richard takes the dais moments later.

"I know John wouldn't have wanted me to get too heavy on you," he begins, after a couple of feeble jokes, "but I've got to say right now, he was probably the best man I've ever known. Kind every man aspires to be. Even when we were kids he put me to shame, always had to do the right thing – if he found a dollar note on the street he'd turn it in. And when he went into the Corps after me, I knew he'd turn out to be a better officer than I ever was. Wasn't a bit surprised when he made colonel."

Richard pauses, scanning the crowd.

"He didn't always have it easy," he continues, eyes settling pointedly on House. "Had some disappointments, some let-downs. Things in his life that didn't pan out exactly like he hoped. But he always did his best. And that's all any of us can do, I guess."

Blood boiling for a moment at the barely-concealed gibe, Wilson feels House stiffen beside him, muttering something inaudible under his breath.

After a couple more childhood anecdotes he can barely bring himself to listen to, Richard steps down, and he's surprised then to see Abby take the stand, smiling briefly as she makes eye contact with him.

"It feels a little odd being up here," she begins, visibly nervous. "I was surprised to be asked. I'm not family, but Blythe was…she's been basically like a mother for the past couple of years. We met when we were both doing volunteer work a couple of days a week at a bookstore. I was in kind of a bad place at the time, and she was nice to me so we just, we got talking. We'd go out sometimes after work or I'd come over and we'd have tea. She was always ready to talk. Even when she looked tired, even when she probably had a lot else on her mind, she'd always make time for me. She was…she was just really kind."

She stops for a moment, looks around awkwardly

"I mean, I guess most of you here already know that about her. She always made a point of staying in touch, making sure I was okay, letting me know she was there. And it didn't ever feel like it was a chore, you know, like she felt some sense of obligation. She really cared." She falters for a minute, clearing her throat.

It's only then that Wilson realises his left hand has gone numb, House gripping it hard enough to stop all blood flow. With a tiny jolt in his chest he squeezes back, keeping his eyes fixed determinedly ahead.

Abby manages a few more brief, nervous words before stepping down, and after a closing prayer from Father Steve the service ends. House releases his hand without a word, standing abruptly.

People begin to approach House then, quietly offering their condolences, shaking his hand, and he murmurs his thanks in terse but polite tones, knuckles white around the handle of his cane. Wilson hangs back a little, watches as House gradually disentangles himself from the small crowd and moves towards the twin coffins at the front of the room.

Looking away, not wanting to intrude, he catches sight of Abby a few feet away.

"I really liked your eulogy," he tells her honestly, smiling as she approaches.

"Thanks. You didn't think I spoke too fast? I was so nervous, this is really not my kind of thing."

"I'm not sure it's anyone's. But no, you did great."

She nods, a strange expression on her face.

"Listen, I just wanted to say…sorry."

"Hm? What for?"

"For, you know." She rolls her eyes sheepishly. "Last night. I feel like such an idiot."

He frowns at her, still mystified.

"Coming onto you. I should have known—I mean, you said you were here together. Until I saw you just now for some reason it just didn't click to me that you were here, _together_."

"We—" Wilson opens his mouth to respond, to correct her, then stops himself without knowing quite why. It seems pointless. It isn't relevant. He doesn't really want to.

"It's fine," she says hurriedly, holding up a hand, "you don't need to explain anything. I really should have figured it out."

He shakes his head, smiling, accepting.

They move aside a little, talking quietly, and although he's nervously waiting for it she doesn't mention the party again, doesn't make any reference to House and Richard's altercation or his own intervention, doesn't ask any questions he doesn't have an answer for.

"Do you know if he's around?" she asks after a while. "We haven't met, I wanted to…do you think he liked the eulogy?"

"Actually, I think he did. You'd never get that out of him, though."

He glances around for House, growing uneasy with the realisation that he's nowhere in sight.

"He was here just a few minutes ago, I'm not sure where he's—"

"He went home," interrupts a familiar voice from behind Wilson.

He turns sharply, coming face to face with Richard again for the first time since last night, and he feels himself tensing involuntarily, muscles rigid.

"How do you know?" he asks at last, voice tight.

"Watched him leave about five minutes ago."

"You—Did you talk to him?"

"Sure. Had a few words up at the front there. He seemed pretty eager to get away."

"Can't imagine why," Wilson murmurs.

He can't keep the anger from his voice now, the suspicion, last night's dream rushing back to him along with its reality, House's words, House's eyes.

Richard eyeballs him for a moment.

"Not sure I like your tone too much," he says, tone mild and still aiming at joviality.

"I've never been much of an advocate for child abuse," Wilson snaps, the words out almost before he has time to form the thought, not caring who might be within earshot.

Richard freezes, momentarily silenced.

"Whatever Greg told you…"

He turns and begins to walk away, stops abruptly as he feels a hand grip his shoulder roughly.

"Now you listen to me," Richard says, his voice a harsh whisper. "What—what John did in his own home, whatever he saw fit to do to teach his no-good kid right from wrong…"

"Go to hell."

He jerks his arm backwards and Richard tightens his grip, eyes narrowing in anger.

"There are a lot of people here," Wilson says quietly, his voice impossibly steady. "Your wife, your friends, Blythe's friends – they're here to mourn. They deserve more respect than this. I'm asking you seriously to take your hand off me and let me walk out of here before I change my mind."

After a moment, Richard seems to concede, releases his arm. Wilson doesn't move for a second, tempted beyond belief to lash out anyway, strike, draw blood, brimming with the kind of violent urge he's never felt before.

He turns to Abby, his features contorting in what he hopes is some approximation of an apologetic smile.

"I'm—I need to leave."

She nods, eyes wide as she stares between the two of them and he can't stop to say anything else, can't look back, shaking a little with everything he's suppressing as he walks out with a dull ringing in his ears.

It's raining again outside, huge, dense drops and he closes his eyes and gives himself up to it, lets it soak him through, soothing, numbing. The white hot anger, twisted in the pit of his stomach, begins to uncurl, and all he can think of is blue eyes.

——

He gets back to the hotel minutes later, clothes still dripping wet and House is outside on the balcony, back turned. Wilson moves swiftly, shrugs off his jacket, joins him outside.

"Hey."

House doesn't look up, staring out into the rain lost in some memory, and his arms are wrapped tightly around his torso like he's trying to pull something in, hold onto something that's fighting to get loose.

"House."

He puts a hand on his shoulder and he starts, turns to face Wilson with wide, haunted eyes and there's something about him that hurts to look at.

"Hey," Wilson says again, a little breathless, reassuring, and all he wants is to make that look in his eyes go away, to never see it there again.

He means to carry on, means to say more but House makes a sound, something raw in the back of his throat like words that can't find form, and Wilson moves closer without volition and holds him, hugs him close and doesn't let go, finally; his fingers brush against the nape of his neck, cradling his head against soaked fabric, breathing against his skin.

"Wilson," House says, voice broken and muffled in his shoulder, fingers digging into Wilson's back and this is all he's wanted, all he knows how to long for, House safe and here and in his arms.

They cling to each other, motionless, silent. House draws back without letting go at all, raises a hand to Wilson's face and pushes dripping hair out of his eyes, shaking like he's coming apart at the seams and Wilson holds on, holds him together, stills him.

"I love you," he says, breathless, then, "I love you."

They're some of the easiest words he's ever said, slipping out like an exhale of warm air and he doesn't know why he hasn't said it before, should have been saying it all along, and maybe he has been. Against his cheek he feels a sharp intake of breath, something like a sob and before he can speak again House is kissing him, desperate and certain, hands fisting tightly into his hair.

His head spinning, his body responds on his behalf while his mind's still playing catch-up, arms wrapping around House's neck and he can't get close enough, pulls him in until there's no space anywhere between them, they are perfectly aligned. House's tongue pushes into his mouth and he's never known sensation like this, it's all he can do to stay upright, blind and yielding and terrified, suddenly, terrified to feel this, terrified to lose this.

Breaking contact for a moment he breathes in, swallows against the hard lump forming in his throat and House runs a thumb along his jaw line softly, endless blue eyes searching.

"It's okay," he murmurs, and it's like he's understood something without Wilson having to say a word, looked straight through him into every nightmare and every tightly coiled moment of dread. . "It's—I'm okay."

"Yeah," Wilson says, voice shaking, and it's true, he believes it, has to believe it. He turns his head into House's neck, eyes stinging with sudden hot tears, and feels lips press against his temple.

"Wilson—"

When they kiss again something gives way between them, shatters imperceptibly into dust and House moans against his lips, says his name again like a prayer, like an affirmation, the rain still beating down all around them, enveloping them in white noise and water and he's okay, they're okay. They're okay.

——

He wakes up the next morning from a long, dreamless sleep, and his head feels clear, somehow, well rested to the point of crisp lucidity.

He realises suddenly that the bed is empty beside him, the other as unoccupied as it had remained all night, and turns over in time to see House enter, fully dressed, letting the door fall shut behind him.

"Hey."

"Hey," Wilson replies, bemused. "Is it…You've been out?"

He nods brusquely, eyes downcast and averted. Wilson watches him drop the keycard onto the desk and shed his coat in stiff, jerky movements, determinedly avoiding eye contact.

"Come here," he says softly, voice firm.

House looks at him, defences fractured. Moves slowly to the edge of the bed and sits.

"Told Sarah I'd go over. Deal with the financial stuff. The ashes."

A few questions run through his mind, then; was Richard there? Did you scatter the ashes? Are you okay? Why didn't you wake me?

"You want to talk about it?"

A long pause.

"Not really."

Wilson nods, pursing his lips, accepting. He doesn't need to know. He reaches for House's hand, holds it still against the mattress.

"You want to get out of here?"

House exhales sharply, almost a laugh.

"Yeah."

——

When they get back to House's apartment late that afternoon, he's barely sat down before he turns to see House motionless in the doorway, regarding him with an unreadable expression.

"What?"

"Come on."

He nods towards the door, leaving before Wilson has time to ask him why, time to do anything but sit there for a beat, rise, and follow him back out in bemused silence.

Outside House is revving his bike against the curb, frowning in concentration.

"What...Are you going somewhere?"

He looks up as the engine roars into life, raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"Get on."

"Is there any point asking why?"

"Depends how you feel about unanswered questions. Get on."

Resigned, Wilson descends the steps, climbs on behind House thinking dimly that he should be more apprehensive about this than he is.

His relaxation dissipates a little once they get out on the open, non-residential roads, his palms beginning to sweat as House floors the bike to a speed he's sure can't be legal.

"Is this your plan?" he yells over the sound of wind and motor, tightening his grip around House's waist. "Send us both out in a blaze of glory, avoid going back to work?"

"Can't wait to get back," House shouts in response, taking a left turn that feels strangely familiar. "All those clinic hours to make up, desperate patients to heal—"

"Employees to abuse..."

"Plus I bet it's been days since anybody took a glance at Cuddy's ass. She needs the attention. Keeps her perky."

"I'm going to try not to read into—What the hell is this?"

There's a sudden dull weight in his stomach as they turn into the parking lot of the Regency Hotel, the all-too-familiar gilded sign glaring ominously at him as they come to a stop.

House dismounts, retrieving his cane and looking expectantly at Wilson.

"What is this?" he asks again, something like nausea rising in his throat.

"Got your key?" House asks, ignoring him.

He mouths silently for a minute, speechless, nods. House shrugs again, impetuous.

"Let's go."

Resigned again, he climbs stiffly off the bike, swallowing hard as he follows House towards the entrance.

"So, what? You're kicking me out?"

House turns to him, expression scornful.

"At this point, I figure calling you an idiot is a waste of breath."

"So—so what?"

"You're checking out."

"What?"

"He's checking out," House repeats to the girl at reception, who nods in slight surprise and smiles.

"Of course. Thought the day would never come, Mr Wilson."

"I—" He pauses, stares at House in dumb disbelief, smiles back weakly. "Yeah. You know, it's about time."

"Did you want, uh, any help moving out?" She glances over Wilson's shoulder to the motorbike parked outside. "We have a shuttle service, if you'd like I can arrange to have your belongings delivered to your new place once you're all packed up."

"Great," House intervenes before Wilson can open his mouth. "221B Fairview."

"Of course."

She turns away and as House nudges him into motion a smile, beaming, ridiculous, spreads over his face.

"Idiot," he hears House murmur behind him, hand ghosting over the small of Wilson's back.

They pack up his room in brisk, easy silence, it takes them hardly any time at all and he's forgotten just how little he's got here now, how long his life has been in limbo.

"Just how much of your crap did Julie end up with?" House mutters, opening a cupboard to find it empty.

"Not much," he shrugs. "Half my stuff's at your place, the rest's in storage."

He'd always figured he'd get it out at some point, once the divorce was finalised, once his life made sense to him again, he'd leave the hotel and find a place and get his furniture and books back along with his life. But he's gone without it for this long and there's something freeing about this lack of clutter, the unfettered clarity of the corner he's turning.

"Think that's it," he says, checking the bathroom cabinet. "At least the shuttle guy's not going to expect too much of a tip."

House nods.

"You want to get out of here?"

"Yeah. Yeah."

As they reach the threshold House turns, backs him against the door frame and kisses him swiftly, urgently and he hears himself whimper in response, hands clutching at worn leather.

"What was that for?" he asks, breathless as they draw apart

"You need a reason? I don't know. Figured you might as well leave on a high note."

Dizzy, euphoric, he laughs. Minutes later, he's handing in his key card feeling lighter than he has in years as they turn to leave, finally, forever.

The sun's beginning to set as they ride home, fading against the horizon in shades of melting orange and he holds onto House tighter than he needs to, closing his eyes. The wind rushes cold against his face, and he's never felt less afraid.


End file.
